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1E£ . ISiriaiKIi WlELITm 



MEMOIR 



AND 



POETICAL EEMAINS 



OF 



HENRY KIEKE WHITE; 



ALSO 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



WITH AN INTEODUCTION BY 

REV. JOHN TODD, 

AUTHOR OF THE "STUDENT'S MANUAL," "SABBATH 
SCHOOL TEACHER," &c, &c. 



BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, & COMPANY, 
110 Washington Street. 

1850. 



^^6' 






\<^ 







Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

S. DOUGLAS WYETH, 

in the Clerk's office of the district court of the Eastern District 

of Pennsylvania. 






<^/^<//3 7 



CONTENTS. 



INTRODUCTION— BY REV. JOHN TODD - - 11 

Lines, by Professor Smyth of Cambridge, on a monu- 
ment erected by Frances Boot, Esq., an American 
Gentleman, in All Saints' Church, Cambridge, to 
the memory of Henry Kirke White ... 56 
ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE 
WHITE— BY ROBERT SOUTHEY ... 57 

POEMS INSERTED IN THE LIFE. 

To the Herb Rosemary ...... 72 

To the Morning — written during Illness ... 73 
Ode on Disappointment - - - ... 88 
CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS. 

Title 113 

Dedication . - • - . . - .114 
Preface ......... 115 

To my Lyre ........ 117 

Clifton Grove . .119 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Gondoline - - - - - - - -136 

Lines written on a survey of the heavens in the mor- 

ning before day-break ...... 148 

Lines supposed to be spoken by a lover at the grave 

of his Mistress - - - . - - -150 

ill 



IV CONTENTS. 

My Study. A letter in Hudibrastic Verse - 1 52 

To an early Primrose ...... 156 

SONNETS. 

I. To the River Trent 157 

II. "Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild" - 157 

III. Supposed to have been addressed by a female lu- 
natic to a lady ....... 158 

IV. Supposed to be written by the unhappy poet Der- 
mody, in a storm, while on board a ship in his 
Majesty's Service .159 

V. The Winter Traveller 159 

VI. " Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays" - 160 

VII. "Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night" 161 

VIII. On hearing the sounds of an Eolian Harp - 162 

IX. What art thou. Mighty One ! and where thy seat ? 162 
A Ballad. Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds - 163 
The Lullaby of a female Convict to her Child - - 164 

POEMS OF A LATER DATE. 

Ode, to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A . . - - - 169 
Ode, addressed to the Earl of Carlisle R. G - . 172 
Description of a Summer's Eve - » - -175 
To Contemplation . . - - - - -177 
Ode to the Genius of Romance - . - .182 

The Savoyard's Return - . . - - .183 
Lines. " Go to the raging sea, and say be still" - 185 
— Written in the Prospect of Death ... 187 
Pastoral Song - - - . - . - .189 
"When Pride and Envy, and the Scorn" . - . 190 
Epigram on Robert Bloomfield . - - - .191 

Ode to Midnight 191 

Ode to Thought. Written at Midnight . - - 192 
Genius ......... 194 



CONTENTS. V 

Fragment of an Ode to the Moon - - - - 198 

" Loud rage the winds without" - - 200 

" Oh thou most fatal of Pandora's train" - 201 

BONNETS. 

To Capel Lofft, Esq. 202 

To the Moon. Written in November - - - 203 

Written at the grave of a Friend ... - 204 

To Misfortune 204 

" As thus oppressed with many a heavy care" - - 205 

To April 206 

" Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies" - - 206 

To a Taper 207 

To my Mother 207 

" Yes 'twill be over soon" = . - - - 208 

To Consumption - 209 

" Thy judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lovest to wear" 209 

Hymn. " The Lord our God is clothed with might" 210 

" The Lord our God is Lord of all" - - 211 

" Through sorrow's night, and danger's path" 212 

"Much in sorrow, oft in woe" ... 213 

"Christians! brethren I ere we part" - - 213 

Sonnet. " Poor little onel most bitterly did pain" - 214 

To a friend in distress .... 215 

■ Christmas Day - . - - - -216 

NelsoniMors 219 

Hymn. " Awake sweet Harp of Judah, wake"- - 220 

. . " O Lord, another day is flown" - - - 222 

. The Star of Bethlehem . = . . 224 

O Lord our God in mercy turn ... 225 

Melody. Yes, once more that dying strain - .226 

Song.— By Waller 227 

" I am pleased, and yet I'm sad" . - - • 228 



VI CONTENTS. 

Solitude - . 230 

If far from me the fates remove .... 231 
Fanny 1 upon thy breast I may not lie - - - 231 
POEMS OF VARIOUS DATES. 

CHILDHOOD Part I, - - - - - - -235 

Part II 241 

The dance of the Consumptives. An eccentric Drama 250 
To a friend. Written at a very early age - - 256 

Lines, on reading the Poems of Warton ... 258 

To the Muse 259 

To Love 261 

The Wandering Boy .262 

Fragment. The Western Gale - - - .263 

Ode, written on Whit-Monday - . - - -266 
Canzonet. " Maiden wrap thy mantle round thee" - 2G7 
Commencement of a Poem on Despair - - -268 

To the Wind at midnight 270 

Sonnet. To December ...... 272 

The fair Maid of Clifton 273 

Song. The Robin Red-breast 277 

Winter Song 278 

Song. " Sweet Jessy ! I would fain caress" . - 279 

Oh, that I were the fragrant flower that kisses 279 

Fragment. On Rural Solitude . . . .280 

■ ■ " In hollow music sighing through the 

glade" 281 

" Thou mongrel who dost show thy teeth, 

and yelp" - .282 

Ode to the Morning Star . . - - - - 283 

The Hermit of the Pacific 284 

Elegy occasioned by the death of Mr, Gill - . 288 
Extemporaneous Verses .-..-- 289 



CONTENTS. Vll 

To Poesy . 291 

Fragment. " I have a wish, and near my heart" - 293 

" Once more his beagles wake the slum- 
bering morn" .-.---- 294 

■ . " Drear winter ! who dost knock" - - 294 

. " Behold the Shepherd boy, who homeward 

tends" 296 

"Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp 

arise" ---- 2D7 

"To a friend" 300 

. " With slow step, along the desert sand" - 300 

. " Oh had the soul's deep silence power to 

speak" ....-.--- 301 

. ■ "The harp is still! Weak though the 

spirit were" .------- 301 

■ " Or should the day be overcast" - - 302 

■ "Mild Vesper! favorite of the Paphian 

Queen" 302 

" In every clime from Lapland to Japan" 303 

. Ode to Liberty 303 

"Who is it leads the planets on their 

dance" 305 

«' How beautiful upon the element" - 307 

" Ghosts of the dead in grim array" - 308 

Ode on the death of the Duke D'Enghien - - 309 

Versification of the XXIL Psalm .... 310 

The eve of Death 312 

Thanatos - - 313 

Athanatos ...--..- 315 

Music -- 318 

On being confined to school one pleasant morning in 

Spring ......--- 318 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

To Contemplation - - - - - - -319 

Ode to the Harvest Moon 322 

Song-, " Soflly, softly blow, ye breezes" - - . 324 

The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song to the night - - 328 
Sonnet. " Sweet to the gay of heart is summer's 

smile" 328 

My own Character ..-..-- 329 

Ode on Disappointment ...--. 331 
Lines written in Wilford Church yard on recovery 

from sickness - . - - - - - - 334 

FRAGMENTS. 

THE CHRISTIAD -.---- 338 

"Saw'st thou that light?" - - - - 355 

" The pious man" .... 355 

" Lo on the eastern summit, clad in gray" - 356 

• "There was a little bird upon that pile" - 356 

" O pale art thou my lamp, and faint" - 357 

" O give me music — for my soul doth faint" 357 

" Ah ! who can say, however fair his view" 358 

• " And must thou go and must we part" - 359 

. " When I sit musing on the checker'd past" 359 

• " When high romance o'er every wood and 

stream" ........ 360 

■ " Hushed is the lyre — the hand that swept" 360 

" Once more and yet once more" - - 361 

TIME - - - - - -. - 362 

MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

No 1 385 

Noll - .389 

No III 395 

No IV. 403 

NoV. - - - . - - - - - 409 



CONTENTS. IX 

No VI 417 

No VII .423 

No VIII.. . . 429 

No IX 436 

NoX 447 

NoXL . - . . . . . . . 451 

No XII 455 

TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Lines by Lord Byron inserted in "Introduction" . 24 

To the memory of H. Kirke White. By a lady . 465 

Stanzas written at the grave of H. Kirke White . 468 

Ode on the late H. Kirke White - - - - 469 
Verses occasioned by the death of H. Kirke White by 

Josiah Conder ....... 470 

Sonnet by Arthur Owen ...... 473 

Sonnet in memory of H. Kirke White ... 474 
Reflections on reading the Life of H. Kirke White by 

William Holloway - 474 

On reading the Poem on Solitude — Josiah Conder . 476 
To the memory of H. Kirke White by Rev. W. B. 

Collyer, A. M 477 

Verses written in the Homer of Mr. H. Kirke White 479 

On the Death of H. Kirke White by T. Park . . 480 



INTRODUCTION. 

It is now nearly forty years since Henry 
KiRKE White finished his short course on 
earth. To those unaccustomed to read the 
providence of God in all events, it seemed 
a matter of mere accident that his literary 
" Remains" should be gathered up and em- 
balmed by the hand of friendship. His race 
was so brief, the difficulties which beset him, 
and the obstacles in his path, were so many 
and so great, that few supposed that the in- 
terest which was then awakened could be 
permanent. His warmest admirers claimed 
for him only the immortality which that 
generation, — perhaps which a single year, 
could bestow. And it has been a matter of 
surprise to many, that these relics have not 
long since passed away on the stream of 
oblivion. We well remember, in the warm 
days of boyhood, reading these volumes, and 
also with feelings of undefined indignation, 

the cold criticisms which were poured upon 

11 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

them in this and in their native country. It 
was predicted, with all the assurance and 
wise gravity of Reviews, that learning so 
meagre, youth so raw, and fragments of 
poetry so few, and so unfinished, must short- 
ly die. The writers of such criticisms have 
passed away unknown and forgotten, while 
poor White holds on his way with a wing 
untired, and a flight undepressed. The pre- 
dictions of some have failed, and the hopes 
of others have been more than fulfilled, be- 
cause the hand which was so early withered 
in death, struck two cords, — neither of 
which is slow to vibrate, or quick to cease 
vibrating. We mean genuine Poetry, and 
Evangelical Piety. We shall have occasion 
to illustrate this remark hereafter. 

Another thing that makes and will con- 
tinue to make White a favourite, is, that 
youth must ever be pleased with what youth 
writes. The old man retires into the cham- 
bers of his own thoughts, and there, in re- 
calling the past, in building again air-castles 
which have been retouched a thousand times, 
in living over the fresh days of his, youth, or, 
if he has wisely sought and found the great 
object for which he was created, in looking 
forward to the time when he shall realize the 



INTRODUCTION. 1 3 

promises of hope, — in these he finds his en- 
joyment. But the morning upon the hills, 
the sweet glories of the evening, the lonely 
water-fall, the dark ravine, the rugged moun- 
tain, and the wild lake of the woods, will 
ever give delight to youth. There is a pe- 
riod when these are the natural enjoyment 
of youth, as really and as certainly, as are 
the bounding leap, the fresh smile, and the 
joyous laugh. So in the taste for reading, 
for thought and meditation, there are different 
standards at different periods of life. We 
would not ask the man of sixty to sit down 
and read Robinson Crusoe, and expect him 
to be as much interested as his little Ben- 
jamin who has been all day poring over it 
with an interest so deep that time and food 
have been alike forgotten. We do not ex- 
pect the man of fifty to admire Henry Kirke 
White as does his son of eighteen ; and when 
we hear any one speak disparagingly of 
him, we are sure that he did not read him 
at the right age. There is a something, — no 
matter what we call it, in the writing of 
youth which will ever be popular with the 
young. We think therefore, that the mourn- 
ful question which Henry in his ambition 
asked — " fifty years hence, and who will think 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

of Henry ?" — may be answered, that multi- 
tudes will; and at this moment he stands 
more sure of th& immortality for which he so 
ardently sighed, than ever before. 

What man who has passed through the 
different stages of life, does not know that 
there are periods in which a peculiar kind 
of reading is most agreeable ? There is, 
for example, the period for Magazines, when 
they are devoured with eagerness, and when 
it seems as if we could not subsist without 
new and constant supplies of this food, and 
rather than not have it, we are willing to 
swallow much that is unleavened, much that 
is unkneaded, and much that is unbaked. 
When we have passed through this period, 
we prefer reading of a graver cast, more un- 
diluted and are well content to substitute 
close, original thought for the raciness or 
the flippancy of modern composition. Yet 
the Magazine period is not without its use. 
We there use the mind as we would a large 
unfinished chamber, into which we tumble all 
kinds of wares and furniture, marring, defa- 
cing, and breaking some, yet as a great store- 
room out of which we may in after days draw 
materials that will be of great service. If 
the facts upon which the eye then falls, must 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

at once be poured out of the mind as Buo- 
naparte used to shoot nails, all heads to 
points, it would be a sad calamity, and the 
stores of the mind, like the wild lands, on 
which we pay taxes in a new country, would 
make us poor in proportion to their abun- 
dance. 

There is also the period of Novels. 
Would that with some it did not last through 
life ! With what greediness and insatiable 
appetite does the votary pore over the va- 
pid page ! Through what monstrous swamps 
does he wade, what dry hills does he climb, 
ever following a phantom and yet never 
satisfied that he is chasing shadows ! And 
it is well that to most people, if age does not 
bring wisdom, it brings an altered taste, and 
if the more wholesome appetite comes too 
late to allow them to pluck and feed on the 
fruit of wisdom, it comes in season to give 
bitter repentance for having wasted what 
was too precious to be lost. 

There is also in the life of almost every 
man, a period when he reads and loves and 
quotes poetry. At first all that comes within 
his reach is food, but as he advances, his taste 
leads him to select with greater care and ad- 
mit but httle as worthy of his lasting ad- 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

miration. It is to be regretted that poetry 
is not read more through life, especially by 
professional men. Poetry is a child of the 
skies. Non tetigit quod non ornavit. The 
appropriate quotation is not the only thing 
that is beautiful. The mind through which 
poetry passes, like the clear channel in which 
the mountain brook runs, seems to be beau- 
tified by the waters that pass through it. 
The young then in admitting and cultivating 
a taste for poetry, are becoming their own 
benefactors, and they are putting the soul 
under the guidance of a teacher, whose 
voice will ever be as sweet as the silver 
trumpet, and whose robes like those of the 
angel, will reflect the purity and drop the 
odors of heaven. It is not the rhythm, the 
cadence, the measure, nor the chosen words 
that thrill us, in the quotation of appropriate 
poetry, but it is, that we seem to be surroun- 
ded by a new light, — that in which the soul 
of the poet was constantly bathed. The 
glories of the rain-bow light are not pro- 
bably, best adapted to our daily wants, else 
had our bountiful Father thrown them over 
the whole creation, and every object that 
meets the eye had been thus gorgeously 
painted, yet who does not feel that he has 



INTRODUCTION. l7 

known a pleasure indescribable, whenever 
he has seen them. 

White too, will be read, because there 
will ever be a tender set of recollections 
grouped around his name. He has given us 
only a few drops of the first gushings of 
the vine. Goethe the poet of Germany, at 
the age of seventy or even eighty was great, 
and could pour forth song like a river im- 
measurably strong and deep and grand. Or 
to change the figure he stood like a tree, 
from which fruit, mature, large and delicious, 
dropped with wonderful profusion, but does 
this fact destroy the taste for that which 
grows upon the young tree, — too young to 
give any more than an earnest of what it 
may do. We admire the efforts of mature 
and trained genius, and feel that they have 
a claim upon our admiration. Perhaps we 
are in danger of witholding somewhat, lest 
we pay that homage to labor and art, which 
we intend for genius, but in the case of the 
youthful bard, we have no such fears, and 
we therefore delight to bestow our unaffect- 
ed admiration on what we know must be the 
result of great talents, and these alone. 
The young poet on whom we are comment- 
ing, like a youthful orator, has our sympa- 

2* 



18 INTRODUCTION. 

thies strongly enlisted in his favor, from the 
first moment of our acquaintance, and this 
surrender of sympathy grows more and more 
unreserved, so long as we cultivate it. There 
is a grace which mantles youth, which con- 
ceals defects, and magnifies excellencies. 
The few who become renowned on earth, 
have for the most part, some external cir- 
cumstances working in their favor, without 
which, apparently, they would have been un- 
known. The errors and sins of the popes, 
were the strange inheritance, by which Mar- 
tin Luther became renowned. The French 
Revolution, with all its horrors and atrocities, 
had to pass away, and the nation drunken 
and reeling with its own blood, was glad to 
give away all her liberties to Buonaparte, 
provided he could restrain her from destroy- 
ing herself. It was this that made him. 
And even our own Washington might have 
cultivated his farm, and measured the land 
of his neighbours, unknown to posterity, 
had not the American Revolution called out 
his character, and reflected his greatness 
upon the world. While we allow that such 
men controlled and guided the circumstances 
which surrounded them, we cannot but feel 
that it is to these circumstances in a great 



INTRODUCTION. 19 

degree, that they owe their celebrity. But 
when a mind comes forth from the deepest 
obscurity, with every circumstance untow- 
ard, and against it, without one thing to aid 
it in coming into notice and yet breaking 
through all this, and by its own inborn en- 
ergy, and its own unaided power, rising up 
and compelling notice and throwing off the 
difficulties which destroy most men, as the 
war-horse would throw off his market bur- 
dens, — we cheerfully bestow our admiration 
and applause. 

It was thus with Henry Kirke White. 
There was humanly speaking no one cir- 
cumstance which did not seem to say, that 
he must live and die in obscurity and un- 
known. His father was a butcher, and des- 
tined his son to the same occupation, and ac- 
tually had him carry the butcher's basket 
from door to door in his boyhood. In his 
school days, his instructors gave his parents 
the comforting assurance that their son was 
a dunce, whose only renown could be that 
of being the greatest block-head in their 
school. His destiny was then changed and 
he was doomed to be apprenticed to a stock- 
ing weaver, as the occupation of his life. 
But before this, when a mere child, he had 



30 INTRODUCTION. 

crept unperceived into the kitchen and 
taught the servants to read, had lampooned 
his teachers, probably with no measured 
severity, and had gathered some few flowers, 
from the hill of Parnassuswhich, to-day, are 
as green as on the day of his plucking them. 
Born and educated amid poverty, in low 
life, with not one about him who could un- 
derstand or appreciate his character, with 
no hand to lift him up, and no voice which 
could call attention to him, he has chal- 
lenged, and has received the decision that 
his name shall stand on the roll of immor- 
tality* And if his life might be embodied 
in a snigle emblem, perhaps it should be 
that of a young lion, with an eye that glows 
and flashes fire, while he is bound with ivy 
and is led by the hand of one of the Graces. 
That must be one of God's own and bright- 
est stars, which can send its light down 
through the fogs and the damps which shut 
up all others, while to this, men involuntarily 
turn their eyes. Such a star was Henry, 
and our chief regret is, that an inscrutable 
Providence saw fit to allow it to do no 
more than hang for a short time in the ho- 
rizon. There must be original greatness in 
the mind that can thus come into notice, 



INTRODUCTION. 21 

with no one circumstance in its favor, but 
the reverse, and it is impossible but these 
struggles and this victory over difficulties 
should embalm his name as one that is 
sacred. 

He was born a Poet. Before he was six 
years old, he used to hang upon the lips of 
a poor damsel, whose attractions consisted 
in her being able to sing the simple ballad 
of the Babes in the Wood. While a mere 
boy he beautifully commemorates the cir- 
cumstance. 

" Many's the time I've scampered down the glade. 

To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 

Which well she loved and well she knew to sing, 

While we around her formed a little ring : 

She told of innocence foredoomed to bleed, 

Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 

Of little children murdered as they slept ; 

While at each pause we wrung our hands and 

wept." 
* » # « » 

" Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 

The first foundation of romantic thought," 

***** 

"Then first that poesy charmed mine infant ear; 
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade," etc. etc. 

It is not strange that childhood's heart 
should be touched by these ditties. It seems 



22 INTRODUCTION. 

that they all formed a ring round the maid, 
and all wrung their little hands and wept, 
but there was only one among them, who 
went alone away to the " o'er-arching shade" 
to meditate and give his soul up to emotion. 
None but one born a poet would at that 
early age do that. 

Another instance. From the age of six 
to twelve he was at school, and used to take 
frequent walks with a playmate. In de- 
scribing these walks, he says it was one of 
their amusements, 

« To gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride 
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, 
And tinged with such variety of shade. 
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 
In these what forms romantic did we trace. 
While fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, 
Leading the embattled Seraphim to war ; 
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky ; 
Or saw, wide-stretching o'er the azure height^ 
A ridge of glaciers dressed in mural white. 
Hugely terrific :" 

What child between the ages of six and 
twelve, has not gazed upon the glorious 
summer clouds, and seen them in all manner 
of fantastic shapes, representing almost 



INTRODUCTION. 23 

every conceivable thing ? But how few are 
the children of this age, even if they were 
fresh from reading Milton, would have 
enough of the Poet about them to see what 
White saw 

« The Thunderer in his car, 
Leading the embattled seraphim to war V 

These are the emotions of the true poet, 
the eyes, as well as the power to describe 
what the eyes saw. 

It was at this very time that his wise 
teachers pronounced him a blockhead be- 
cause they knew not how to teach, and it 
was during these six years that the poor boy 
had another trial which must have tended 
to wither his genius, as " one whole day in 
the week and his leisure hours on other days, 
were employed in carrying the butcher's 
basket," his father being determined to bring 
him up to his own trade ! What indications 
of genius his lampoons on his stupid teach- 
ers would have afforded, we cannot know. 
Henry chiefly destroyed them himself. But 
as panegyric is alwa)''s dull poetry, (sad 
comment on human nature !) and as satire 
is always the liveliest of which the author 



24 INTRODUCTION. 

is capable, it is most probable that his whip 
would not have lacked a snapper. 

As we are speaking of Henry's claim to 
his popularity because he is a genuine poet, 
we may here introduce the testimony of one 
who will not be suspected of partiality. It 
is the unsought and unexpected testimony 
of Byron, given in the days before his atra- 
bilious feelings led him to shun and trample 
on all that was virtuous — we had almost 
said, all that was decent. The heart which 
dictated this beautiful eulogy, had not then 
been the parent of such a monster as Don 
Juan. 

" Unhappy White ! while Ufe was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing, 
The spoiler came ; and, all thy promise fair, 
Has sought the grave, to sleep forever there. 
Oh ! what a. noble heart was here undone. 
When Science self destroy'd her favourite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit. 
^Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 

low: 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the' plain. 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And winged the shaft that quiver'd in his heart. 



INTRODUCTION. S5 

Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast." 

We are fully aware that poetry is some- 
thing to be enjoyed, rather than described. 
Like those exquisite essences which the 
French chemist prepares, — indescribably 
fragrant when properly used, but which 
evaporate by examining, ox even handling. 
And yet we may take occasion to make one 
or two quotations which seem to us to 
evince the fact, that the Muses were present 
even from Henry's natal hour. We sup- 
pose that the brightest specimens of poetry 
must, from the very nature of things, be 
bordering on the obscure; that the Muse 
must take her flight midway between the 
visible and the invisible world, — so that she 
can dimly look into the latter, and then cull 
from the vocabulary of earth to find lan- 
guage with which to describe w^hat she has 
seen. The following is a specimen of what 
we mean, and shows that White was a poet 
by nature. Common minds cannot soar 
hke this, or if they can, they cannot stop on 
the very pinnacle of the mountain and there 
go out of sight. 



26 INTRODUCTION. 

« Once more, and yet once more, 

I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay ; 
I heard the waters roar, 

I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 

In thine eternal cell, 
Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 

I saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete. 

Thou spakest, and at thy feet 
The universe gave way." 

A single piece of a bone, will show that 
the creature of which it is a mere fragment, 
was a mammoth; and a single specimen 
of ore from a mine shows how rich is the 
bed from which it was dug. This single 
fragment shows that it came from a mine, 
which, if not inexhaustible, is of the richest 
quality. 

For some time previous to his death, 
Henry gave himself wholly to severe studies, 
and with such intensity of application, that 
his life was the forfeit. After his death 
there were found two stanzas of poetry writ- 
ten on the back of his mathematical papers, 
which for tender pathos, are seldom equalled. 
They are probably the last that his gifted 
mind ever produced. We shall be greatly 
mistaken if the reader shall regret that we 
quote them here, as one of the evidences 



INTRODUCTION. 27 

that White was a Poet. It was probably a 
part of his poem on Time. 

« Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 

With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 
The lyre which 1 in early days have strung ; 
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 
On the dark cypress ! and the strings which 
rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are 
heard no more. 

« And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 

Shall I no more re-animate the lay ? 
Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men. 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 

One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I 
am free." 



This affecting prayer of the "youthful 
traveller" was answered, as God frequent- 
ly answers prayer — not by giving the pre- 
cise thing for which in our darkness we ask. 
He entreated for life, in which he might 



28 INTRODUCTION. 

serve his Redeemer : he received imraortality 
in which he might be satisfied in the image 
of that Savior. 

At the time when these hnes were penned, 
the young Poet was surrounded by a host 
of admirers, who were goading him on in 
his studies, and with a frail body sinking 
under the pressure. He died a martyr to 
study : and while his friends were rejoicing 
that no honors were beyond his reach, and 
while his soul was of that order which even 
Death could not subdue, though it might 
crush the house in which it dwelt, and 
while his pure heart was panting only to be 
qualified for the holy functions of the min- 
istry of the Gospel, he sank suddenly and 
quickly away, and was laid in the grave at 
the early age of about twenty-one. What 
expectations were cut off* by this mysterious 
dispensation! But he lived to write that 
which will give him no mean place in the 
Temple of Fame as a Poet ; and this is one 
reason why he has continued to live in spite 
of the predictions of those who were so 
confident and decided, that they felt it ne- 
cessary to try hard to render their pro- 
phesyings true. 

The other thing, in addition to poetical 



INTRODUCTION. 29 

powers, which has made Henry a favorite, 
and to which allusion has already been 
made, is, that he had evangelical piety. 

Perhaps there is no one thing, excepting 
the horrors of the death-bed of the guilty, 
which is so gloomy in contemplation, as to 
witness the perversion of high powers of 
mind. When the traveller follows the mag;- 
nificent St. Lawrence up towards those 
wonders, — the Falls, his soul is elevated at 
the thought that he is on the bosom of the 
river which empties half the waters of the 
globe; but when, in a clear soft moonlight 
evening, he finds the floating palace on 
which he treads, winding her way among 
the "Thousand Isles" which stud these 
beautiful waters, he feels that it is indeed a 
fairy land : it is living poetry : it is consoli- 
dated romance, — and he retires to a lone 
part of the boat, that he may give himself 
up to emotions which are unutterable. He 
wants no one to break the charm by ex- 
claiming "how beautiful." Nothing ever 
conceived as belonging to earth can be com- 
pared to it, — and he cannot share his emo- 
tions with others. Now let these same Isles 
lie just as they now do, with the same soft 
moon hanging over them and the same 



30 INTRODUCTION, 

emerald waters flowing past them, and yet 
let them be occupied by banditti and refu- 
gees. Let the passengers and officers of 
the boat be on the lookout, expecting that 
outcasts will start out from behind every 
clump of trees, or will fire upon them from 
behind every rock. How different are the 
emotions now ! How different is that whole 
river, that veil of moonlight and these gems 
on the waters ! 

Such are the different feelings with which 
we regard a mind full of poetry, fall of 
emotion, full of the beautiful, the sublime 
and the great. If that mind with its powers 
and faculties and attainments be consecra- 
ted to religion and to God, we admire it as 
we do the islands as first described. We 
give our souls up to it without reserve, with 
a delight unmixed and with a confidence un- 
restrained. Such was the mind of Henry 
Kirke White. 

But when those glorious attributes of 
mind are given up to sin, filled with images 
of pollution, and crime, and death, we feel 
that the banditti and the refugees h^ve come 
and turned our paradise into hell. The 
pure temple of Parian marble becomes a 
charnel house. The thousand-leaved rose 



INTRODUCTION. 31 

emits its fragrance only to conceal its 
poison. 

Such was Thomas Dermody — a youthful 
poet who died about the time that Henry 
died. With powers of mind and with po- 
etical talent inferior, we had almost said to 
none, with friends admiring and urging him 
on, and a nation ready to applaud him, he 
prostituted all that he had, or might have 
had, to sin, to passion, and to death. He 
wore out his friends, all save one, who dis- 
graced himself by writing his Memoirs, and 
went down to the grave six years older than 
White, unlamented, unpraised, and forgot- 
ten. His memory perished with his ruined 
body. Perhaps few, if any of our readers 
ever heard of his name before. And yet if 
his heart had been sanctified by piety, and 
his powers consecrated to God, we have no 
reason to doubt, that he would have shared 
in the love and respect which are so freely 
given to White. We do not now mention 
his name to honor it, any more than the 
anatomist shows the scull of the felon to 
excite admiration. The mind recurs to 
Dermody because his circumstances were 
similar, and his powers of mind probably not 
inferior, to those of White — and because 



32 INTRODUCTION. 

the fate which awaited his memory has 
been so very different. Seldom are we 
called to witness a more striking illustration 
of the promise, " them that honor me I will 
honor saith the Lord." How sure is the 
worm to destroy every plant which God has 
not planted ! How sure is the fate of those 
who prostitute their powers to sin, to be 
doomed to oblivion. Or if their names are 
preserved, they are preserved as the bodies 
of criminals, which are hung up in chains, 
that the passers-by may behold and shudder. 
A few, may for a short time, admire those 
who are great in wickedness ; but the hum- 
ble one, who pours the ointment on the feet 
of Jesus, shall have it told of her for a me- 
morial, that God will honor those who honor 
him through all time, and through all the 
world! Blessed memorial! And why will 
those, who pant after fame, and desire as 
the ruling passion of the soul, to live in the 
memory of men, why will they make war 
upon this unalterable law of God ? 

We have heard, we know not how many 
times — the sweet hymns of White sung by 
those whose esteem and love is indeed fame. 
How would that youth have felt could he 
have known, that when he had been in his 



INTRODUCTION. 33 

grave nearly forty years, it could be said, 
that not a week, probably not a day passes, 
in which some one or more of his sweet 
Hymns is not sung to the music of Zion, 
and by those who are following him to the 
land of unclouded day ! In the forest, on 
the mountain-side, and in the great city, we 
have multitudes of times united in the song, 
" The Star of Bethlehem," 

" When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky," etc. 

The following Hymn we deem one of the 
best m the English language, and when sung 
to simple music, it is impossible for the 
heart not to have emotions of awe, and sub- 
limity, if not of devotion. 

" The Lord our God is clothed with mightj 

The winds obey his will, 
He speaks, and in his heavenly height 

The rolling sun stands still. 

" Rebel ye waves and o'er the land 

With threatening aspect roar ; 
The Lord uplifts his awful hand 

And chains you to the shore. 

" Howl winds of night ! your force combine j 
Without his high behest. 



34 INTRODUCTION. 

Ye shall not in the mountain pine 
Disturb the sparrow's nest, 

" His voice sublime is heard afar, 

In distant peals it dies, 
He yokes the whirlwind to his car, 

And sweeps the howling skies. 

" Ye nations bend — in reverence bend ; 

Ye monarchs wait his nod, 
And bid the choral song ascend 

To celebrate our God." 

White seems not to have had, what we 
in this country call, a religious education. 
As soon, therefore, as he became conscious 
of his superiority of intellect, he felt wise 
enough to be a Deist. Some pious friend, 
who well understood his case, put " Scott's 
Force of Truth" into his hands. He receiv- 
ed it with cold indifference, and promised to 
answer it ; but when he came to read it, he 
found that in it which no infidel can begin 
to answer; viz, the enlightened experience 
of a Christian. It is this experience of the 
heart under the operation of the Holy Spirit, 
which utterly confounds men. Were it ar- 
gument alone, on which the Christian rests, 
be might be met and vanquished by argu- 
ment. Were it on the reveries of imagi- 



INTRODUCTION. 35 

nation alone, he might be laughed out of it. 
Were it only on a dream of an hour of en- 
thusiasm, he might be awaked when the 
hour of sober thinking should come. But 
who can meet experience — that which is a 
part of consciousness, and which abides 
through life — with argument or ridicule? 
Henry read the book ; and, on returning it, 
said, " that, to answer that book, was out 
of his power, and out of any man's, for it 
was founded upon eternal truth ; that it had 
convinced him of his error, and so tho- 
roughly was he impressed with a sense of 
the importance of his Maker's favor, that 
he would willingly give up all acquisitions 
of knowledge and all hopes of fame, and 
live in a wilderness unknown till death, so 
that he could insure an inheritance in Hea- 
ven." To the clergyman who had put this 
little volume into his hands, he afterwards 
said, that, when he found that the Scrip- 
tures demanded purity oi thought dindi feeling, 
as well as pure outward conduct, he could 
find no comfort in his penitence, till he fled 
to the atonement for sin, which was made 
through the blood of the everlasting Re- 
deemer. To this unfailing refuge he fled, 
and the desire to become like him grew upon 



INTRODUCTION. 



him tUl he was called home to his presence. 
His biographer held different views from 
Henry as to the depravity of the heart and 
the great doctrines of evangelical religion ; 
yet he bears this noble testimony : that the 
piety of Henry " was in him a living and 
quickening principle of goodness, which 
sanctified all his hopes and all his affec- 
tions, which made him keep watch over his 
own heart, and enabled him to correct the 
few symptoms which it ever displayed of 
human imperfection." However few may 
have been the outward " symptoms of hu- 
man imperfection," which his heart dis- 
played, we have no doubt that his was like 
all other hearts, depraved and unholy ; and 
we esteem the conversion of a heart so vain 
and so elated with a consciousness of ta- 
lent, as his must have been, one of the tro- 
phies of the grace of God. It is an in- 
stance of the high look and the lofty imagina- 
tion being brought into the obedience of the 
faith in Christ Jesus; and to eternity will his 
glorified spirit ascribe all the glory to the 
sovereign mercy of God in Christ Jesus. 
Who can read his life and not be impressed 
with the belief that he possessed a towering 
pride and an ambition that was boundless ? 



INTRODUCTION. 37 

And what but supernatural power could 
bring these down to sit meekly at the feet 
of Jesus, and make him feel that all was 
lighter than air, compared with the appro- 
bation of his Maker? There are many 
evidences that the piety of Henry was ge- 
nuine and deep. Among them, we may no- 
tice that his temper, which was naturally 
irritable, became placid and controllable ; 
that he was uniformly trying to make others 
happy by doing them good ; that he was 
unalterably fixed in his determination to de- 
vote his life to the propagation of the gos- 
pel as his highest aim and desire, though 
his friends did all in their power to dissuade 
him; that he was uniformly most conscien- 
tious and devotional, till death dismissed 
him from earth. 

All wish to be remembered after they are 
in the cold grave ; all wish to have an influ- 
ence that shall linger on earth, and be felt 
long after they have passed away; and, 
could they know that this influence would 
increase for a century, or even for a thou- 
sand years, how would they rejoice ! Who 
would not try hard to climb the mountain- 
side, if, Avhen he had reached the summit, 

he could open a fountain which would flow 

4 



38 INTRODUCTION. 

and carry fertility and blessings down to 
the end of time, and have his name asso- 
ciated with that fountain? It is on this 
principle that men, who can hardly read 
themselves, found schools and colleges. 
Perhaps this desire to speak after death is 
peculiarly strong in the bosom of the poet. 
By a mysterious law of God, every son 
and daughter of Adam, whether he be Alex- 
ander the conquerorjBuonaparte the wonder 
of modern times, or the poor slave in the 
mud-built cottage, is to have this influence. 
The grave receives the body, but the tomb 
does not take all away. Something is left 
to speak. Two youths may feed their 
flocks on the plains of Campania, and they 
may quarrel, though brothers. The more 
savage may kill the meek one, and this sa- 
vage character shall be impressed on a 
mighty empire, and this scene of violence 
shall be the influence which shall increase 
tin the spirit of Romulus is breathed into 
all that mighty kingdom, and Rome treads 
her way over nations with an iron heel, a 
dagger in her hand, and the savageness of 
murder in her heart. Had Remus stamped 
his character upon the infant colony, who 
can say that shepherds, instead of warriors, 



INTRODUCTION. 39 

had not occupied the plains of Campania ? 
When we look at the influence which mind 
must have upon mind, we are almost ready 
to shudder at one side of the picture, while 
we rejoice at the other. The influence 
of such a man as Richard Baxter upon 
his own generation was great; but, pro- 
bably, not a hundredth part of what it 
has been on every generation since. The 
streams of influence, which he began to 
pour upon the human mind, have been 
widening and deepening ever since. The 
number who will be brought to Jesus Christ 
by his pen, makes us feel as if his voice had 
been multiplied a thousand fold, and his 
tongue had become the tongue of an angel. 
And what shall we say of Bunyan, the man 
who was the scorn and the laughing-stock 
of his generation, and the admiration of 
every generation that has succeeded ? His 
beautiful allegory will guide many a pilgrim 
through the slough of Despond up to the 
city of the New Jerusalem, and, being dead, 
he will influence to the end of time. If 
there be a joy purer than that of the sinless 
angels, it would seem to belong to that 
glorified spirit, who, from the walls of the 
golden city, can look down and see his in- 



40 INTRODUCTIOK. 

fluence on earth, like an angel of mercy, 
still bringing sons and daughters to the 
Lamb of God. There may be periods in 
which, owing to some peculiar taste of the 
age, such writers will be almost forgotten ; 
but the next generation will call them back 
to their place and influence. We may not 
doubt, however, that this influence is felt, 
even when not perceived, just as the moon 
lays her unseen hand on the tides and moves 
and controls them, when she is lost to us 
and we forget her, till the time for her re- 
turn comes, when she is welcomed in all her 
brightness, and her influence is acknow- 
ledged. And what is worthy of note and 
of gratitude, a single thought or a single 
paragraph may do wonders upon the heart 
of man. Probably no tongue can estimate 
the number of souls which will be brought 
back to God indirectly, in consequence of 
the sweet eulogy of Cowper upon the pulpit, 
commencing with the words : 

" The pulpit — and I named it," etc. etc. 

It will never be known till the great 
day how many feet have been turned to 
the house of God, and how many hearts 
have had a reverence for the pulpit awa- 



INTRODUCTION. 41 

kened by that brief paragraph. But we 
shall not be disappointed, if it shall be 
found that it has done more good than 
many great volumes of divinity, and the 
whole ministry of many really valuable 
ministers of the gospel. How little did 
Moses think that the songs which his soul 
poured out here, would be sung even in 
Heaven ! 

Turn now to the influence which unsanc- 
t'ljied mind has upon the world. 

A wicked heart is frequently accompa- 
nied by genius, which it soon brings to 
its own subjection. The man writes and is 
read, and becomes an acknowledged author. 
He spends years upon his work ere it comes 
from the press. He brings the results of 
diligence, of learning, and of genius, and 
lays them before the world. They have 
passages of undeniable beauty and power, 
and they are popular. It is in the power 
of genius to dress up the vilest highway- 
man, (we have Paul Clifford in our eye,) so 
that the hideousness of crime and of blood 
shall be covered up, and young hearts shall 
sigh that they cannot be such highwaymen, 
or cannot marry such men. Alas ! the poi- 
son of the soul is mingled in every stream 



4@» INTRODUCTION. 

which such a mind sends out, though so art- 
fully covered up and so skilfully prepared, 
that the young heart does not perceive it. 
The book goes out upon the world, and a 
demon sits among its leaves and laughs. 
The press comes to the aid of ruin, and 
seals its perpetuity, and insures its wide cir- 
culation, and the demon's laugh is echoed 
from ten thousand different portions of the 
earth. The author thus acquires an influ- 
ence, a deep, decided influence, in the world, 
which will widen and extend after he has 
long been an inhabitant of the eternal world. 
He dared take the mind which God gave 
him for purposes so high and noble that 
eternity alone oan fulfil them, and with it, 
pour a living curse over his species ; and, in 
awful severity, God has decreed that the 
curse shall flow and continue to flow on- 
ward, and he shall be made accountable for 
all the mischief he thus does. Oh ! if the 
covering could be removed from the dark 
world, so that we could see what is now 
concealed, we believe the human spirit might 
there be found who would think the price 
of a world cheap, could he with it, purchase 
the privilege of blotting out one of those 
profane jests at the cross of Xesus, which 



INTRODUCTION. 43 

he left on earth to do the work of death. 
And there would be found the unholy 
genius who came as an angel in intel- 
lect, and sung in strains that an angel 
might admire, but who used his harp only 
to allure down to hell. What a fearful gift 
the possession of such an intellect ! and 
such a harp! — a harp that can entrance 
nations, open undiscovered fountains in the 
human heart, and pour out its numbers fresh 
as the morning dew, when other harps 
would shatter by being over-strained ! Such 
an one has just left its influence on earth. 
Wonderful being ! 

« With Nature's self 
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest, 
At will with all her glorious majesty. 
He laid his hand upon the 'ocean's mane/ 
And played familiar with his hoary locks ; 
Stood on the Alps, — stood on the Appenines, 
And with the thunder talked as with a friend, 
And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing. 

* Si' -5|i 5^ ilf 

Suns, moons, and stars and clouds his sisters were ; 
Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds and 

storms, 
His brothers — younger brothers, whom he scarce 
As equals deemed. 



44 INTRODUCTION". 

On the loftiest top 
Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and 

worn, 
As if he from the earth had labored up, 
But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair. 
He looked, which down from higher regions came, 
And perched it there, to see what lay beneath." 

Alas, we say again, that it should be so ; 
that the lofty genius, before whom the spe- 
cies all bow in wonder and amazement, 
should put out the lamp of life, and cause 
his own beacon to loom up, fiery and red, 
amid the darkness which he continued to 
create — a beacon whose only use is to de- 
coy the ship, laden with a cargo more pre- 
cious than rubies, upon the rocks and the 
reefs, that he' should revel in the luxury of 
witnessing the awfulness of the wreck ! Oh ! 
if the heavens above, and the caverns be- 
neath us, could be turned into whispering gal- 
leries, what ecstacy of bliss and of wo should 
we hear, consequent upon the influence left 
on earth ! Had we the power of the painter, 
and were it our object to paint despair, 
we should select the author who prostituted 
his powers to destroy the souls of men. 
We would put on him no chains ; he should 
wear no fetters. He should sit down alone 



INTRODUCTIOlSr. 45 

in his agony, while at a distance should 
stand a multitude of all ages who are point- 
ing to him with curses and despair in their 
faces. He should see them, and his very- 
countenance should seem to say — "Ah! ye 
need not point and curse. Ye are not all 
that I have ruined. There are many more 
to come and hail me as their marshal to 
destruction. I was once witty and keen, 
and could so gracefully thrust the spear into 
the side of Jesus, that my hand was hardly 
seen. But oh ! my folly ! What would I 
not give, could my name and my influence 
be now swept from the earth and the blight- 
ing curse cease. Oh! that I could now 
shut down those flood-gates of death which 
my own right hand lifted up, and stay the 
streams of ruin which I caused to flow. 
But, alas ! I have been here centuries, and 
yet I am living and speaking and destroy- 
ing on the earth, and my burden of guilt 
already heavier than mountains, is every 
hour becoming heavier still !" This would 
be Despair. 

We speak of the simple, child-hke piety 
of White as almost a phenomenon. It 
must be recollected, that, in a short mo- 
ment, he came from poverty, obscurity, and 



46 INTRODUCTION. 

almost degradation, into notice, respect, 
and adulation. The fact that he was a 
master-spirit, was fully made known to him. 
Is it easy for such a mind to walk in the 
valley of humiliation ? Some suppose, that, 
if they could stand high and aloft among 
men, have distinctions and notice, so that 
they could tower above their species, they 
should most cheerfully consecrate it all to 
God, though they find it hard to do so with 
the single talent. And is a powerful intel- 
lect, such as can dive into the mysteries 
and depths of nature, so capacious that it 
can grasp the past, the present, and the fu- 
ture, and hold them out in a new light, — is 
such an intellect the thing that will lead 
men to humility and self-renunciation ? No. 
The intellect of the archangel might be in 
the possession of an unsanctified heart, and 
it would be a heavy curse. Adding to the 
possessions of such a heart does not tend 
to make it better, Judas would rob his 
master of a few shillings. Would placing 
him over the treasures of an empire make 
him an honest man ? Does addino- to the 
wealth of a selfish heart render it benevo- 
lent? Would the gift of enviable and en- 
vied talents tend to kill that pride which is 



INTKODUCTION. 47 

now the god which we are so ready to 
serve ? Increase the intellect, the powers 
of the mind, exalt the mortal and make 
him feel that he has what others admire 
and covet, and you do as much towards 
bringing the soul down to the foot of the 
cross, as you would towards reducing the 
fort which already seems impregnable, by 
sending more cannon and more powder and 
ball into it. The acknowledged transcend- 
ent powers of mind which White possessed, 
were one of the greatest obstacles in his way 
of becoming an humble and meek disciple 
of Christ. But all this was brought down 
by the grace of God, and he stands forth a 
monument of the mercy and of the power 
of the gospel of "Jesus Christ. 

How immeasurably high does the Poet 
stand compared with others, who conse- 
crates his gifts to the cross of Jesus. We 
speak not here of the guilt of making po- 
etry the vehicle in which the gifted mind 
may carry the curses of a blighted heart, 
and the fires of passions kindled from the 
pit, but we speak of the advantage which 
he has in three important particulars, viz. : 
range of thought., immortality araong men^ 
and the rewards of doing good. Suppose a 



48 INTRODUCTION. 

poet has no piety, and he is about to task 
his powers of mind to the utmost, what is 
his field ? He may read and study and 
converse with men — travel and examine 
cities and battle-fields — gather the costumes 
and the customs of all nations and ages and 
languages ; he may lay before him the map 
of time, and at a glance read all the past. 
He may then look for imager}^, and the 
world is full of it. Not a plant grows by 
the hedge, but it is full of life ; not a flower 
opens in his garden, but it is pencilled with 
the most exquisite skill. He goes to the 
desert and to the mountain-side, and a hand 
has already been there to plant and paint 
the flower which smiles at his approach; 
he looks into the dark, deep lake of the 
forest, and nimble swimmers, all mottled 
with gold and purple and carmine, are there 
to excite his wonder and admiration ; he 
looks into the deeper chambers of the 
ocean, and there the coral and the shell, 
inimitably beautiful and in unmeasured pro- 
fusion, astonish his inquiring mind ; or, he 
looks abroad on the surface of the earth, and 
the mountains heave up their huge rocks like 
the skeletons of worlds not yet made ,• or 
the ocean lifts its awful voice and shuts out 



INTRODUCTION. 49 

the limits between what is finite and what 
is infinite ; or the storm comes through the 
forest hke a destroying spirit, and sports 
with what seems immoveable, and the 
hoarse voice of the thunder and the bright 
flash of its fire, are all his, and he may press 
them all into the service of his song, and 
make them all sit at his feet and tune their 
harps at his bidding. 

But these are all finite in space, in time, 
in measure, and, at the very point where the 
sublime begins, the materials are exhausted 
and the poet must stop. The soul can 
never be satisfied with what is finite. Now, 
at the spot at which the poet who rejects 
the Bible stops, because the poor elements 
which he handles pall upon him like the toys 
which children have turned over until they 
loathe them, the Christian poet starts. He 
can use all these ; but all these materials, 
the hills, the mountains, the ocean, the pla- 
nets, and the heavens, all that the eye sees, 
are only images of what is yet to be seen — - 
the mere scaffoldinor of the buildino-, which 
is yet to be reared. What poem could 
Milton have produced, had he been confined 
to all that God has revealed through his 

works, provided he must shut out the Bible ? 
5 



50 INTRODUCTION. 

As to materials, then, the Christian poet 
stands on ground as much superior to the 
poet of this world as spirit is superior to 
matter, as the infinite is greater than the 
finite, and as eternity is greater than time. 
Then, as to fame. The gospel carries 
light in its path. It will not long have dis- 
ciples who cannot read and reflect^ who 
are not intelligent, virtuous, and rising in 
the scale of knowledge. There will be 
more intelligent readers among Christians, 
ten fold at least, than among those who 
reject the Bible. The number of readers 
and admirers of thinking minds, which will 
attend to the song of the Christian poet, is 
altogether in his favor. And what is more, 
love is the genius of the gospel. While 
others admire and gaze as they would upon 
an iceberg, the Christian takes his poet to 
his heart and gives him his heart and love. 
Who would not prefer to have the warm 
hearts that have been given to the pages of 
the sweet Cowper, than to have all the 
ditty-music and all the bacchanalian admi- 
ration that has been bestowed upon all the 
amatory songs that have ever been written ? 
Who would not prefer the warm-hearted 
admiration which is so cheerfully given to 



INTRODUCTION". 51 

Milton, than all the praises which have been 
ever meted out to old Homer — father of 
song? It is one thing to walk around a 
temple and gaze and admire its cold marble, 
and another to view it with a beating heart, 
because it contains the shrine at which the 
heart worships* The irreligious poet may, 
at immense expense, erect his splendid mau- 
soleum, but it contains only the bones of dead 
men ; the Christian poet shall be at the same 
expense, and living angels shall walk there, 
and Hope, in the mantle of undecaying 
youth, shall be there to receive the oftering 
made to the God of hope. 

How short is the life of almost every 
book, — and how little does it eftect ! 

" Thou wonderest how the world contained them 

all! 
Thy wonder stay : like men, this was their 

doom : — 
That dust they were, and should to dust re- 
turn. 
And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, 
Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves 

were green ; 
And on them fell, as fell on every age, 
As on their authors fell, oblivious Night, — 
Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still, 
Impenetrable, motionless and sad, 



52 INTRODUCTION. 

Having his dismal, leaden plumage stirred 

By no remembrancer, to show the men 

Who after came, what was concealed beneath." 

As to the good done, and the rewards of 
that good, it were vain to attempt any com- 
parison between the Christian and the mere 
poet of time. All honors drop at the 
grave, and the voice of fame and applause 
falls dead as it strikes the tomb. Then, at 
the very spot at which the creature of time 
has emptied his cup and received his re- 
ward, the rivers of pleasure begin everlast- 
ingly to flow for the servant of Christ. 
What worms of earth can bestow shall be 
the reward of the one, while the eternal 
smile of the infinite God shall be the re- 
ward of him who gives his powers to 
Christ. 

We cannot close these remarks upon the 
gifted young poet, without distinctly holding 
him up as an example of encouragement to 
youth in humble life. He was the son of a 
poor butcher, as were also Dr. Moore, arch- 
bishop of Canterbury of the present day, 
and Cardinal Woolsey of former days ; but 
this was a barrier that could be easily sur- 
mounted. The most favored and honored 
of men, and the choicest instruments raised 



INTRODUCTION. 53 

up by a superintending Providence, were 
from the shades of humble hfe. Pascal 
and Bowditch, immortal for their accurate 
minds, were the sons of mechanics. Why- 
go over the catalogue of great ones who 
have sprung from similar origin, which 
catalogue has been repeated until it is al- 
most offensive to good taste ? We might, 
in the twilight of our wisdom, go to a palace 
to select a hand that could tear down the 
pillars which the superstition of ages had 
reared^ but God goes to the mines and 
takes the collier's son — the boy who begged 
food from door to door, while pursuing his 
studies — and raises him up to be the instru- 
ment who should usher in the glorious re- 
formation. There is no aristocracy of 
talent, and mind is so much more esteemed 
than matter ; intellect is so much more 
highly prized than the mere circumstances 
of birth or of wealth, that they sink into 
nothing. If the quill can write a powerful 
sentence, it is of little consequence whether 
it came from the wing of the eagle or the 
goose. And let no youth feel that he can 
be depressed by mere external circum- 
stances. If he has the vis vifce, the un- 
speakable gift of great talents, and a heart 
5* 



54 INTRODUCTION. 

consecrated to the good of men and the 
honor of God, there will be no lack of op- 
portunity to have these called out. And 
we hold up Henry Kirk White as a monu- 
ment of what perseverance, a right enthusi- 
asm, and a pure heart can accomplish. We 
hold him up as a monument of the power 
of the gospel and of the grace of God, and 
we commemorate him as an example of the 
powers of the human soul. He died at the 
early age of twenty-one ; but the warm 
breathings of his soul are still upon us, and 
will never grow cold. If, in that short 
period, his spirit could master so much of 
learning ; if it could drink so much at so 
many fountains of knowledge ; if it could 
stamp itself upon the earth, so that its 
lineaments will remain, perhaps till the 
archangel's trumpet shall sound, what may 
not be its powers, its faculties, its light, and 
its glory, in the eternal kingdom of God, 
where it can see and study and know all 
that comes within the province of a finite 
being ? What songs of love and of gratitude 
will not the tongue sing, as it mingles eter- 
nally with that bright circle who will for- 
ever be drawing nearer the throne of the 
Redeemer ? 



INTRODUCTION. 55 

Henry lies buried in Cambridge — the spot 
on which he fell a martyr to a noble enthu- 
siasm. One of our own countrymen, Fran- 
cis Boot, has erected a monument there to 
his memory. But he needs not marble. 
We admire the feeling which did it; and 
yet we are almost sorry that it is done. 
We would prefer that it might still be said : 

" No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb — 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom." 

The name, the character, and the writings 
of White, are the legacy of the young. To 
them we commend them, as we would the 
pure waters that gush from the mountain- 
side. They cannot be tasted without in- 
vigorating. And, if these remarks, penned 
with diffidence, shall add any thing to the 
value of the beautiful edition which our 
respected publishers now put forth, our 
gratification will be immeasurably greater 
than our labor. 

PiTTSFiELD, Mass., May, 1844. 



INSCRIPTION 

BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. PROFESSOR OP MODERN 

HISTORY, CAMBRIDGE; 

ON A MONUMENTAL TABLET, 

WITH A MEDALLION BY CHANTREY, 

ERECTED IN ALL-SAINt's CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE, 

AT THE EXPENSE OF FRANCIS BOOTT, ESQ. 

OF BOSTON, UNITED STATES. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 

BORN MARCH 21st, 1785; DIED 

OCTOBER 10th, 180G. 

Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame, 

To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came'; 

Uncocquer'd powers, the immortal mind display'd, 

But worn with ajixious thought the frame decay'd: 

Pale o'er his lamp and in his cell retired, 

The Martyr Student faded and expired. 

Genius, Taste, and Piety sjncere. 

Too early lost, midst duties too severe ! 

Foremost to mourn was generous SOUTHEY seen. 

He told the tale and show'd what WHITE liad been, 

Nor told in vain — far o'er th' Atlantic wave, 

A Wanderer came and sought the Poet's grave ; 

On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, 

And raised this fond memorial to bis fame. 

W. 9. 



56 



ACCOUNT 

OP THE 

LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



Not alone by the Muses, 
But by the Virtues loved, his soul in its youthful aspirings 
Sought the Holy Hill, and his thirst was for Siloah's waters. 

Vision of Judgment. 

No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep. 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom ! 

Byron. 



Henry Kirke White, the second son of John 
and Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 
21st, 1784. His father was a butcher ; hismother, 
whose maiden name was Neville, is of respectable 
Staffordshire family. 

From the years of three till five, Henry learnt 
to read at the school of Mrs. Garrington ; whose 
name, unimportant as it may appear, is mentioned 
because she had the good sense to perceive his ex- 
traordinary capacity, and spoke of what it pro- 
mised with confidence. She was an excellent wo- 

57 



58 LIFE OP 

man, and he describes her with affection in his 
poem upon Childhood. At a very early age his 
love of reading was decidedly manifested ; it was 
a passion to which every thing else gave way. 
" I could fancy," says his eldest sister, " I see him 
in his little chair, with a large book upon his knee, 
and my mother calling, ^ Henry, my love, come to 
dinner ;' which was repeated so often without be- 
ing regarded, that she was obliged to change the 
tone of her voice before she could rouse him." 
When he was about seven, he would creep unper- 
ceived into the kitchen, to teach the servant to read 
and write; and he continued this for some time before 
it was discovered that he had been thus laudably 
employed. He wrote a tale of a Swiss emigrant, 
which was probably his first composition, and gave 
it to this servant, being ashamed to show it to his 
mother. The consciousness of genius is always 
at first accompanied with this dif&dence ; it is a 
sacred, solitary feeling. And perhaps, no forward 
child, however extraordinary the promise of his 
childhood, ever produced any thing truly great. 

When Henry was about six, he was placed un- 
der the Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that 
time, the best school in Nottingham. Here he 
learnt writing, arithmetic, and French. When he 
was about eleven, he one day wrote a separate 
theme for every boy in his class, which consisted 
of about twelve or fourteen. The master said he 
had never known them write so well upon any 
subject before, and could not refrain from express- 
ing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. 



HENRY ZIRKE WHITE. 50 

It was considered as a great thing for him to be at 
so good a school, yet there were some circum- 
stances which rendered it less advantageous to him 
than it might have been. Mrs. White had not yet 
overcome her husband's intention of breeding him 
up to his own business ; and by an arrangement 
which took up too much of his time, and would 
have crushed his spirit, if that "mounting spirit" 
could have been crushed, one whole day in the 
week, and his leisure hours on the others, were em- 
ployed in carrying the butcher's basket. Some 
differences at length arose between his father and 
Mr. Blanchard, in consequence of which Henry 
was removed. 

One of the ushers, when he came to receive the 
money due for tuition, took the opportunity of in- 
forming Mrs. White what an incorrigible son she 
had, and that it was impossible to make the lad 
do any thing. This information made his friends 
very uneasy : they were dispirited about him ; and 
had they relied wholly upon this report, the stu- 
pidity or malice of this man would have blasted 
Henry's progress for ever. He was, however, 
placed under the care of a Mr. Shipley, who soon 
discovered that he was a boy of quick perception, 
and very admirable talents ; and came with joy, 
like a good man, to relieve the anxiety and pain- 
ful suspicions of his family. 

While his schoolmasters were complaming that 
they could make nothing of him, he discovered 
what Nature had made him, and wrote satires 
upon them. These pieces were never shown to 



60 LIFE OF 

any, except his most particular friends, who say 
that they were pointed and severe. They are 
enumerated in the table of contents to one of his 
manuscript volumes, under the title of School- 
Lampoons ; but, as was to be expected, he had 
cut the leaves out and destroyed them. 

One of his poems, written at this time, and un- 
der these feelings, is preserved. (See " Lines on 
being confined to school one pleasant morning in 
spring," page 318.) 

About this time his mother was induced, by the 
advice of several friends, to open a Ladies' Board- 
ing and Day School in Nottingham, her eldest 
daughter having previously been a teacher in one 
for some time. In this she succeeded beyond her 
most sanguine expectations, and Henry's home- 
comforts were thus materially increased, though 
it was still out of the power of his family to give 
him that education and direction in life which his 
talents deserved and required. 

It was now determined to breed him up to the 
hosiery trade, the staple manufacture of his native 
place ; and at the age of fourteen he was placed 
in a stocking-loom, with the view, at some future 
period, of getting a situation in a hosier's ware- 
house. During the time that he was thus employ- 
ed, he might be said to be truly unhappy ; he went 
to his work with evident reluctance, and could not 
refrain from sometimes hinting his extreme aver- 
sion to it ; but the circumstances of his family 
obliged them to turn a deaf ear. His mother, 
however, secretly felt that he was worthy of better 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 61 

things : to her he spoke more openly ; he could 
not bear, he said, the thought of spending seven 
years of his life in shining and folding up stock- 
ings ; he wanted something to occupy his brain, 
and he should be wretched if he continued longer 
at this trade, or indeed in any thing except one of 
the learned professions. These frequent com- 
plaints, after a year's application, or rather mis- 
application (as his brother says), at the loom, con- 
vinced her that he had a mind destined for nobler 
pursuits. 

To one so situated, and with nothing but his 
own talents and exertions to depend upon, the 
Law seemed to be the only practicable line. His 
affectionate and excellent mother made every pos- 
sible effort to effect his Vvashes, his father being 
very averse to the plan ; and at length, after over- 
coming a variety of obstacles, he was fixed in the 
office of Messrs. Coldham and Enfield, attorneys 
and town-clerks of Nottingham. As no premium 
could be given with him, he was engaged to serve 
two years before he was articled : so that, though 
he entered this office when he was fifteen, he was 
not articled till the commencement of the year 
1802. 

On his thus entering the Law, it was recommend- 
ed to him by his employers, that he should en- 
deavour to obtain some knowledge of Latin. He 
had now only the little time which an attorney's 
office, in very extensive practice, afforded ; but 
great things may be done in "those hours of leisure 
which even the busiest may create," and to his 
6 



62 LIFE OF 

ardent mind no obstacles were too discouraging. 
He received some instruction in the first rudiments 
of this language from a person who then resided 
at Nottingham under a feigned name, but was soon 
obliged to leave it, to elude the search of govern- 
ment, who were then seeking to secure him. 
Henry discovered him to be Mr. Cormick, from 
a print affixed to a continuation of Hume and 
Smollett, and published, with their histories, by 
Cooke. He is, I believe, the same person who 
wrote a life of Burke. If he received any other 
assistance it was very trifling ; yet, in the course 
of ten months, he enabled himself to read Horace 
with tolerable facility, and had made some progress 
in Greek, Avhich indeed he began first. He used 
to exercise himself in declining the Greek nouns 
and verbs as'he was going to and from the office, 
so valuable was time become to him. From this 
time he contracted a habit of employing his mind 
in study during his walks, which he continued to 
the end of his life. 

He now became almost estranged from his fam- 
ily; even at his meals he would be reading, and 
his evenings were entirely devoted to intellectual 
improvement. He had a little room given him, 
which was called his study ; and here his milk 
supper was taken up to him ; for, to avoid any 
loss of time, he refused to sup with . his family, 
though earnestly entreated so to do, as his mother 
already began to dread the effects of this severe 
and unremitting application. The Law was his 
first pursuit, to which his papers show he had ap- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 63 

plied himself with such industry, as to make it 
wonderful that he could have found time, busied 
as his days were, for any thing else. Greek and 
Latin were the next objects : at the same time he 
made himself a tolerable Italian scholar, and ac- 
quired some knowledge both of the Spanish and 
Portuguese. His medical friends say that the 
knowledge he had obtained of chemistry was very 
respectable. Astronomy and electricity were 
among his studies. Some attention he paid to 
drawing, in which it is probable he would have 
excelled. He was passionately fond of music, and 
could play very pleasingly by ear on the piano- 
forte, composing the bass to the air he was play- 
ing ; but this propensity he checked, lest it might 
interfere with more important objects. He had a 
turn for mechanics ; and all the fittings-up of his 
study were the work of his own hands. 

At a very early age, indeed soon after he was 
taken from school, Henry was ambitious of being 
admitted a member of a Literary Society then ex- 
isting in Nottingham, but was objected to on ac- 
count of his youth. After repeated attempts and 
repeated failures, he succeeded in his wish, through 
the exertions of some of his friends, and was elect- 
ed. There were six Professors in this Society ; 
and, upon the first vacancy, he was appointed to 
itie chair of Literature. It may well appear 
strange that a society, in so large a town as Not- 
tingham, instituted for the purpose of acquiring 
and diffusing knowledge, and respectable enough 
to be provided with a good philosophical appara- 



04 LIFE OF 

tus, should have chosen a boy, in the fifteenth year 
of his age, to deliver lectures to them upon general 
literature. The first subject upon which he held 
forth was Genius. Having taken a day to con- 
sider the subject, he spoke upon it extempore, and 
harangued for two hours and three quarters : yet, 
instead of being wearied, his hearers passed a 
unanimous resolution, " That the most sincere 
thanks be given to the Professor for his most in- 
structive and entertaining lecture ; at the same time 
assuring him that the Society never had the pleasure 
of hearing a better lecture delivered from that 
chair which he so much honoured :" and they then 
elected him one of their committee. There are 
certain courts at Nottingham, in which it is ne- 
cessary for an attorney to plead ; and he wished 
to qualify himself for a speaker as well as a sound 
lawyer. 

With the profession in which he was placed he 
was well pleased, and suffered no pursuit, nume- 
rous as his pursuits were, to interfere in the slight- 
est degree with its duties. Yet he soon began to 
have higher aspirations, and to cast a wistful eye 
toward the Universities, with little hope of ever 
attaining their important advantages, yet probably 
not without some, however faint. There was at 
this time a magazine in publication, called the 
Monthly Preceptor, which proposed prj.-ze-themes 
for boys and girls to write upon ; and which was 
encouraged by many schoolmasters, some of 
whom, for their own credit, and that of the impor- 
tant institutions in which they were placed, ought 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 65 

to have known better than to encourage it. But 
in schools, and in all practical systems of educa- 
tion, emulation is made the main-spring, as if there 
were not enough of the leaven of disquietude in 
our natures, without inoculating it with this dilute^ 
ment — this vaccine, virus of envy. True it is, that 
we need encouragement in youth ; that though 
our vices spring up and thrive in shade and dark- 
ness, like poisonous fungi, our better powers re- 
quire light and air ; and that praise is the sunshine, 
without which genius will wither, fade, and die ; 
or rather in search of which, like a plant that is 
debarred from it, will push forth in contortions 
and deformity. But such practices as that of wri- 
ting for public prizes, of publicly declaiming, and 
of enacting plays before the neighbouring gentry, 
teach boys to look for applause instead of being 
satisfied with approbation, and foster in them that 
vanity which needs no such cherishing. This is 
administering stimulants to the heart, instead of 
" feeding it with food convenient for it ;" and the 
effect of such stimulants is to dwarf the human mind, 
as lap-dogs are said to be stopt in their growth by 
being dosed with gin. Thus forced, it becomes 
like the sapling which shoots up when it should 
be striking its roots far and deep, and which there- 
fore never attains to more than a sapling's size. 

To Henry, however, the opportunity of distin- 
guishing himself, even in the Juvenile Library, 
was useful ; if he had acted with a man's foresight, 
he could not have done more wisely than by aim- 
ing at every distinction within his little sphere. At 
6 * 



66 I-IFE OF 

the age of fifteen, he gained a silver medal for a 
translation from Horace ; and the following year 
a pair of twelve-inch globes, for an imaginary 
Tour from London to Edinburgh. He determined 
upon trying for this prize one evening when at tea 
with his family, and at supper he read to them his 
performance, to which seven pages were granted 
in the magazine, though they had limited the al- 
lowance of room to three. Shortly afterwards he 
won several books for exercises on different sub- 
jects. Such honours were of great importance to 
him ; they were testimonies of his ability, which 
could not be suspected of partiality, and they pre- 
pared his father to regard with less reluctance that 
change in his views and wishes which afterwards 
took place. It appears by a letter written soon 
after he had completed his fifteenth year, that many 
of his pieces in prose and verse, under feigned sig- 
natures, had gained admission in the various mag- 
azines of the day, more particularly in the Month- 
ly Magazine and the Monthly Visitor : " In pro- 
saic composition," he says, " I never had one ar- 
ticle refused: in poetic, many." — "I am conscious," 
he observes, at this time, to his brother, " that if 
I chose I could produce poems infinitely superior 
to any you have yet seen of mine ; but I am so 
indolent, and at the same time so much engaged, 
that I cannot give the time and attention' necessary 
for the formation of correct and accurate pieces." 
Less time and attention are necessary for correct- 
ing prose, and this may be one reason why, con- 
trary to the usual process, a greater prematurity is 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 67 

discernable in his prose than in his metrical com- 
positions. "Tlie reason," he says, "of the num- 
ber of erasures and corrections in my letter is, that 
it contains a rough transcript of the state of my 
mind, without my having made any sketch on 
another paper When I sit down to write, ideas 
crowd into my mind too fast for utterance upon 
paper. Some of them I think too precious to be 
lost, and for fear their impression should be effaced, 
I write as rapidly as possible. This accounts for 
my bad writing." 

He now became a correspondent in the Monthly 
Mirror, a magazine which first set the example of 
typographical neatness in periodical publications, 
which has given the world a good series of por- 
traits, and which deserves praise also on other ac- 
counts, having among its contributors some per- 
sons of extensive erudition and acknowledged tal- 
ents. Magazines are of great service to those who 
are learning to write ; they are fishing-boats, which 
the Buccaneers of Literature do not condescend 
to sink, burn, and destroy : young poets may safely 
try their strength in them ; and that they should 
try their strength before the public, without danger 
of any shame from failure, is highly desirable. 
Henry's rapid improvement was now as remark- 
able as his unwearied industry. The pieces which 
had been rewarded in the Juvenile Preceptor 
might have been rivalled by many boys ; but what 
he produced a year afterwards, few men could 
equal. Those which appeared in the Monthly 
Mirror attracted some notice, and introduced him 



68 LIFE OP 

to the acquaintance of Mr. Capel LofFt, and of 
Mr. Hill, the proprietor of the work, a gentleman 
who was himself a lover of English literature, 
and who possessed one of the most copious col- 
lections of English poetry in existence. Their 
encouragement induced him, about the close of 
the year 1802, to prepare a little volume of poems 
for the press. It was his hope that this publica- 
tion might either, by the success of its sale, or the 
notice which it might excite, enable him to pro- 
secute his studies at college, and fit himself for 
holy orders. For, though so far was he from 
feeling any dislike to his own profession, that he 
was even attached to it, and had indulged a hope 
that one day or other he should make his way to 
the Bar, a deafness, to which he had always been 
subject, and which appeared to grow progressively 
worse, threatened to preclude all possibility of ad- 
vancement ; and his opinions, which had at one 
time inclined to infidelity, had noAV taken a strong 
devotional bias. 

Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if pos- 
sible, some patroness for his book, whose rank in 
life, and notoriety in the literary world, might 
afford it some protection. The days of such dedi- 
cations are happily well-nigh at an end ; but this 
was of importance to him, as giving his little vol- 
ume consequence in the eyes of his friends and 
townsmen. The Countess of Derby was first ap- 
plied to, and the manuscript submitted to her pe- 
rusal. She returned it with a refusal, upon the 
ground that it was an invariable rule with her 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 69 

never to accept a compliment of the kind; but 
this refusal was couched in language as kind as it 
was complimentary, and he felt more pleasure at the 
kindness which it expressed, than disappointment 
at the failure of his application : a 2/. note was in- 
closed as her subscription to the work. The mar- 
gravine of Anspach was also thought of. There 
is among his papers the draught of a letter ad- 
dressed to her upon the subject, but I believe it 
was never sent. He was then recommended to 
appljr to the Duchess of Devonshire. Poor Hen- 
ry felt a fit of repugnance at courting patronage in 
this way, but he felt that it was of consequence in 
his little world, and submitted ; and the manuscript 
was left, with a letter, at Devonslrke House, as it 
had been with the Countess of Derby. Some time 
elapsed, and no answer arrived from her Grace ; 
and, as she was known to be pestered with such 
applications, apprehensions began to be entertained 
for the safety of the papers. His brother Neville 
(who was now settled in London) called several 
times ; of course he never obtained an interview : 
the case at last became desperate, and he went 
v/ith a determination not to quit the house till he 
had obtained them. After waiting four hours in 
the servants' hall, his perseverance conquered their 
idle insolence, and he got possession of the man- 
uscript. And here he, as well as his brother, sick 
of "dancing attendaaice" upon the great, would 
have relinquished all thoughts of the dedication, 
but they were urged to make one more trial : — a 
letter to her Grace was procured, with which Ne- 



70 LIFE OI" 

rille obtained audience, wisely leaving the man- 
uscript at home : and the Duchess, with her usual 
good-nature, gave permission that the volume 
should be dedicated to her. Accordingly her name 
appeared in the title-page, and a copy was trans- 
mitted to her in due form, and in its due morocco 
livery, — of which no notice was ever taken. In- 
volved as she was in an endless round of miserable 
follies, it is probable that she never opened the 
book, otherwise her heart was good enough to 
have felt a pleasure in encouraging the author. 
Oh, what a lesson would the history of that heart 
hold out ! 

Henry sent his little volume to each of the then 
existing Reviews, and accompanied it with a let- 
ter, wherein he stated what his disadvantages had 
been, and what were the hopes which he proposed 
to himself from the publication : requesting from 
them that indulgence of which his productions did 
not stand in need, and which it might have been 
thought, under such circumstances, would not have 
been withheld from works of less promise. It may 
be well conceived with what anxiety he looked 
for their opinions, and with what feelings he read 
the following article in the Monthly Review for 
February, 1804. 

Monthly Review, February, 1804. 

" The circumstances under which this little vol- 
ume is offered to the public, must, in some measure, 
disarm criticism. We have been informed that 



HENRi EIRKE WHITE. 71 

Mr. White has scarcely attained his eighteenth 
year, has hitherto exerted himself in the pursuit 
of knowledge under the discouragements of pen- 
ury and misfortune, and now hopes, by this early 
authorship, to obtain some assistance in the pro- 
secution of his studies at Cambridge. He appears, 
indeed, to be one of those young men of talents 
and application who merit encouragement ; and it 
would be gratifying to us to hear that this publi- 
cation had obtained for him a respectable patron ; 
for we fear that the mere profit arising from the 
sale cannot be, in any measure, adequate to his ex- 
igencies as a student at the university. A sub- 
scription, with a statement of the particulars of 
the author's case, might have been calculated to 
have answered his purpose ; but, as a book which 
is to ' win its way' on the sole ground of its own 
merit, this poem cannot be contemplated with any 
sanguine expectation. The author is very anxious, 
however, that critics should find in it something to 
commend, and he shall not be disappointed : we 
commend his exertions and his laudable endeavors 
to excel; but we cannot compliment him with 
having learned the difficult art of writing good 
poetry. 

" Such lines as these will sufficiently prove our 
assertion : 

Here would I run, a visionary Boy, 
When the hoarse thunder shook the vaulted Sky, 
And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
Sternly careering in the eddying storm. 



72 LIFE OF 

" If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma- 
mater, he will, doubtless, produce better sense and 
better rhymes," 

I know not who was the writer of this precious 
article. It is certain that Henry could have no 
personal enemy : his volume fell into the hands of 
some dull man, who took it up in an hour of ill- 
humor, turned over the leaves to look for faults, 
and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox 
rhymes, according to his wise canons of criticism, 
sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had 
confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficul- 
ties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With 
such a letter before him (by mere accident I saw 
that which had been sent to the Critical Review,) 
even though the poems had been bad, a good man 
would not have said so : he would have avoided 
censure, if he had found it impossible to bestow 
praise. But that the reader may perceive the 
wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this re- 
viewal, a few specimens of the volume, thus con- 
temptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are 
used as rhymes hi it, shall be inserted in this place. 

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 

Sweet-scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 

On January's front severe, 

And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

* The Rosemary buds in Januaiy, It is the flower commonly 
put in the coffins of the dead. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 78 

And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song : 
And sweet the strain shall be and long, 

The melody of death. 

Come, funeral flow'r ! who lovest to dwell 

With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 

And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 
Come, press my lips, and lie with me 
Beneath the lowly Alder-tree, 

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
And not a care shall dare intrude. 
To break the marble solitude. 

So peaceful and so deep. 

And hark ! the wind -god, as he flies. 

Moans hollow in the forest trees, 

And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 
Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
It warns me to the lonely shrine. 
The cold turf-altar of the dead ; 

My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 

Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou, wilt o'er my ashes shed. 



TO THE MORNING. 

WRITTEN DTJRINO ILLNESS. 

Beams of the day-break faint ! I hail 
Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
Of Night, which wraps the slumbering globe, 
I mark your traces pale. 

7 



74 I-IFE OP 

Tired with the taper's sickly light, 
And with the wearying, number'd night, 

I hail the streaks of morn divine : 
And lo ! they break between the dewy wreaths 

That round my rural casement twine : 
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes ; 
It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental strife, 
And cheerily re- illumes the lambent flame of life. 

The lark has her gay song begiin, 

She leaves her grassy nest, 
And soars till the unrisen sun 

Gleams on her speckled breast. 
Now let me leave my restless bed. 
And o'er the spangled uplands tread ; 

Now through the custora'd wood-walk wend ; 
By many a green lane lies my way. 

Where high o'erhead the wild briers bend, 
Till on the mountain's summit grey, 
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn of day. 

Oh, Heav'n ! the soft refreshing gale 

It breathes into my breast ! 
My sunk eye gleams ; my cheek, so pale, 

Is with new colors drest. 
Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease, 
Come thou too on the balmy breeze. 

Invigorate my frame : 
I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase. 
With thee the distant clime will trace, 

Beyond those clouds of flame. 

Above, below, what charms unfold 

In all the varied view ! 
Before me all is burnish'd gold. 

Behind the twilight's hue. 
The mists which on old Night await, 
Far to the west they hold their state, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 75 

They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; 

Along the fine cerulean sky, 

The fleecy clouds successive fly, 
While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folc" 

And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 

His whistle on the eaves. 
And oft the Hedger's bill is heard 

Among the rustling leaves. 
The slow team creaks upon the road, 

The noisy whip resounds, 
The driver's voice, his carol blithe, 
The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe, 

Mix with the morning's sounds. 

Who would not rather take his seat 

Beneath these clumps of trees, 
The early dawn of day to greet, 

And catch the healthy breeze. 
Than on the silken couch of Sloth 

Luxurious to lie "? 
Who would not from life's dreary waste 
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, 

An interval of joy 1 

To him who simply thus recounts 

The morning's pleasures o'er. 
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close, 

To ope on him no more : 
Yet, Morning ! unrepining still 

He'll greet thy beams awhile ; 
And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
Solemn the whispering willows wave. 

Wilt sweetly on him smile ; 
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 
Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. 



76 LIFE OF 

An author is proof against reviewing, when, 
ake myself, he has been reviewed some seventy 
times; but the opinion of a reviewer, upon his 
first pubUcation, has more effect, both upon his 
feelings and his success, than it ought to have, or 
would have, if the mystery of the ungentle craft 
were more generally understood. Henry wrote 
to the editor to complain of the cruelty with which 
he had been treated. This remonstrance produced 
the following answer in the next number : 



Monthly Reviewy March, 1804. 

ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. 

« In the course of our long critical labors, we 
have necessarily been forced to encounter the re- 
sentment, or withstand the lamentations, of many 
disappointed authors ; but we have seldom, if ever, 
been more affected than by a letter from Mr. 
White, of Nottingham, complaining of the ten- 
dency of our strictures on his poem of Clifton 
Grove, in our last number. His expostulations 
are written with a warmth of feeling in which we 
truly sympathise, and which shall readily excuse, 
with us, some expressions of irritation ; but Mr. 
White must receive our most serious declaration, 
that we did 'judge of the book by the book itself;' 
excepting only, that, from his former letter, we 
were desirous of mitigating the pain of that de- 
cision which our public duty required us to pro- 
nounce. We spoke with the utmost sincerity 



HENRY EIRKE WHITE. 77 

when we stated our wishes for patronage to an 
unfriended man of talents, for talents Mr. White 
certainly" possesses, and we repeat those wishes 
with equal cordiality. Let him still trust that, like 
Mr. Gifford (see preface to his translation of Juve- 
nal,) some Mr. Cookesley may yet appear to foster 
a capacity which endeavours to escape from its 
present confined sphere of action ; and let the op- 
ulent inhabitants of Nottingham reflect, that some 
portion of that wealth which they have worthily 
acquired by the habits of industry, will be lauda- 
bly applied in assisting the efforts of mind." 

Henry was not aware that reviewers are infal- 
lible. His letter seems to have been answered by 
a different writer ; the answer has none of the 
commonplace and vulgar insolence of the criti- 
cism : but to have made any concession would 
have been admitting that a review can do wrong, 
and thus violating the fundamental principle of its 
constitution. 

The poems which had been thus condemned, 
appeared to me to discover strong marks of genius. 
I had shown them to two of my friends, than whom 
no persons living better understand what poetry 
is, nor have given better proofs of it ; and their 
opinion coincided with my own. I was indignant 
at the injustice of this pretended criticism, and 
having accidentally seen the letter which he had 
written to the reviewers, understood the whole 
cruelty of their injustice. In consequence of this 
I wrote to Henry, to encourage him ; told him, 
that though I was well aware hew imprudent it 
7* 



78 LIFE OF 

was in young poets to publish their productions, 
his circumstances seemed to render that expedient, 
from which it would otherwise be right to dissuade 
him ; advised him therefore, if he had no better 
prospects, to print a larger volume by subscription, 
and oifered to do what little was in my power to 
serve him in the undertaking. To this he replied 
in the following letter : — 

* ?!S * « * 

« I dare not say all I feel respecting your opin- 
ion of my little volume. The extreme acrimony 
with which the Monthly Review (of all others the 
most important) treated me, threw me into a state 
of stupefaction ; I regarded all that had passed as 
a dream, and 1 thought I had been deluding my- 
self into an idea of possessing poetic genius, when 
in fact I had only the longing, without the afflatus. 
I mustered resolution enough, however, to write 
spiritedly to them : their answer in the ensuing 
number was a tacit acknowledgment that they 
had been somewhat too unsparing in their correc- 
tion. It was a poor attempt to salve over a wound 
wantonly and most ungenerously inflicted. Still 
I was damped, because I knew the work was very 
respectable ; and therefore could not, I concluded, 
give a criticism grossly deiicient in equity — the 
more especially, as I knew of no sort of induce- 
ment to extraordinary severity. Your letter, 
however, has revived me, and I do again venture 
to hope that I may still produce something which 
will survive me. 

" With regard to your advice and offers of as- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. T9 

sistance, I will not attempt, because I am unable, 
to thank you for them. To-morrow morning I de- 
part for Cambridge ; and I have considerable hopes 
that, as I do not enter into the University with any 
sinister or interested views, but sincerely desire to 
perform the duties of an affectionate and vigilant 
pastor, and become more useful to mankind, I 
therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find means 
of support in the University. If I do not, I shall 
certainly act in pursuance of your recommenda- 
tions ; and shall, without hesitation, avail myself 
of your offers of service, and of your directions. 

" In a short time this will be determined ; and 
when it is, I shall take the liberty of writing to 
you at Keswick, to make you acquainted with the 
result. 

" I have only one objection to publishing by 
subscription, and I confess it has weight with me ; — 
it is, that, in this step, I shall seem to be acting 
upon the advice so unfeelingly and contumeliously 
given by the Monthly Reviewers, who say what 
is equal to this — that had I gotten a subscription 
for my poems before their merit was known, I 
might have succeeded; provided, it seems, I had 
made a particular statement of my case ; like a 
beggar who stands with his hat in one hand, and 
a full account of his cruel treatment on the coast 
of Barbary in the other, and so gives you his pen- 
ny sheet for your sixpence, by way of half-pur- 
chase, half-charity. 

" I have materials for another volume ; but they 
were written principally while Clifton Grove was 



80 LIFE OP 

in the press, or soon after, and do not now ut all 
satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged 
to desist, almost entirely, from converse with the 
dames of Helicon. The drudgery of an attorney's 
office, and the necessity of preparing myself, in 
case I should succeed in getting to college, in what 
little leisure I could boast, left no room for the 
flights of the imagination." 

In another letter he speaks, in still stronger terms, 
of what he had suffered from the unfeeling and 
iniquitous criticism : 

" The unfavourable review (in the ' Monthly') 
of my unhappy work, has cut deeper than you 
could have thought; not in a literary point of view, 
but as it affects my respectability. It represents 
me actually as a beggar, going about gathering 
money to put myself at college, when my work is 
worthless ; and this with every appearance of 
candor. They have been sadly misinformed re- 
specting me : this review goes before me wherever 
I turn my steps : it haunts me incessantly ; and I 
am persuaded it is an instrument in the hands of 
Satan to drive me to distraction. I must leave 
Nottingham." 

It is not unworthy of remark, that this very re- 
viewal, which was designed to crush the hopes of 
Henry, and suppress his struggling genius, has 
been, in its consequences, the main occasion of 
bringing his Remains to light, and obtaining for 
him that fame which assuredly will be his portion. 
Had it not been for the indignation which I felt 
at perusing a criticism at once so cruel and so 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 81 

Stupid, the little intercourse between Henry and 
myself would not have taken place ; his papers 
would probably have remained in oblivion, and 
his name in a few years have been forgotten. 

I have stated that his opinions were, at one time, 
inclining towards deism : it needs not be said on 
what slight grounds the opinions of a youth must 
needs be founded : while they are confined to mat- 
ters of speculation, they indicate, whatever their 
eccentricities, only an active mind ; and it is only 
when a propensity is manifested to such principles 
as give a sanction to immorality, that they show 
something wrong at heart. One little poem of 
Henry's Remains, which was written in this un- 
settled state of mind, exhibits much of his char- 
acter, and can excite no feelings towards him, but 
such as are favourable. (See "My own Charac- 
ter," page 329.) 

At this time, when Henry doubted the truth of 
Christianity, and professed a careless indifference 
concerning it which he was far from feeling, it 
happened that one of his earliest and most intimate 
friends, Mr. Almond, was accidentally present at 
a death-bed, and was so struck with what he then 
saw of the power and influence, and inestimable 
value of religion, that he formed a firm determina- 
tion to renounce all such pursuits as were not 
strictly compatible with it. That he might not be 
shaken in this resolution, he withdrew from the 
society of all those persons whose ridicule or cen- 
sure he feared; and was particularly careful to 
avoid Henry, of whose raillery he stood most in 



82 LIFE OP 

dread. He anxiously shunned him, therefore; 
till Henry, who would not suffer an intimacy of 
long standing to be broken off he knew not why, 
called upon his friend, and desired to know the 
cause of this unaccountable conduct towards him- 
self and their common acquaintance. 

Mr. Almond, who had received him with trem- 
bling and reluctance, replied to this expostulation, 
that a total change had been effected in his reli- 
gious views, and that he was prepared to defend 
his opinions and conduct, if Henry would allow 
the Bible to be the word of truth and the standard 
of appeal. Upon this Henry exclaimed in a tone 
of strong emotion : — " Good God, you surely re- 
gard me in a worse light than I deserve V — His 
friend proceeded to say, that what he had said was 
from a conviction that they had no common ground 
on which to contend, Henry having more than 
once suggested, that the book of Isaiah was an 
epic, and that of Job a draTuatic, poem. He then 
stated what the change was which had taken place 
in his own views and intentions, and the motives 
for his present conduct. From the manner in 
which Henry listened, it became evident that his 
mind was ill at ease, and that he was noways 
satisfied with himself. His friend, therefore, who 
had expected to be assailed in a tone of triumphant 
superiority by one in the pride and youthful con- 
fidence of great mtellectual powers, and, as yet, 
ignorant of his own ignorance, found himself un- 
expectedly called upon to act the monitor ; and, 
putting into his hands Scott's " Force of Truth,'' 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 83 

which tvas lying on the table, entreated him to 
take it with him, and peruse it at his leisure. 

The book produced little effect, and was return- 
ed with disapprobation. Men differ as much in 
mind as in countenance : some are to be awaken- 
ed by passionate exhortation, or vehement reproof, 
appealing to their fears and exciting their imagi- 
nation ; others yield to force of argument, or, upon 
slow inquiry, to the accumulation of historical tes- 
timony and moral proofs ; there are others, in 
whom the innate principle of our nature retains 
more of its original strength, and these are led by 
their inward monitor into the way of peace. Hen- 
ry was of this class. His intellect might have 
been on the watch to detect a flaw in evidence, a 
defective argument, or an illogical inference ; but, 
in his heart, he felt that there is no happiness, no 
rest, without religion ; and in him who becomes 
willing to believe, the root of infidelity is destroy- 
ed. Mr. Almond was about to enter at Cambridge : 
on the evening before his departure for the Uni- 
versity, Henry requested that he would accompa- 
ny him to the little room, which was called his 
study. " We had no sooner entered," says Mr. 
Almond, " than he burst into tears, and declai'ed 
that his anguish of mind was insupportable. He en- 
treated that I would kneel down and pray for him ; 
and most cordially were our tears and supplications 
mingled at that interesting moment. When I took 
my leave, he exclaimed : — " What must I do ? — 
You are the only friend to whom I can apply in 
this agonizing state, and you are about to leave 



84 LIFE OF 

me. My literary associates are all inclined to 
deism; I have no one with whom I can communi- 
cate !" 

A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he 
engaged in it with his wonted ardour. "It was a 
constant feature in his mind," says Mr. Pigott, " to 
persevere in the pursuit of what he deemed noble 
and important. Religion, in which he now ap- 
peared to himself not yet to have taken a step, en- 
gaged all his anxiety, as of all concerns the most 
important. He could not rest satisfied till he had 
formed his principles upon the basis of Christianity, 
and till he had begun in earnest to think and act 
agreeably to its pure and heavenly precepts. His 
mind loved to make distant excursions into the 
future and remote consequences of things. He no 
longer limited his views to the narrow confines of 
earthly existence ; he was not happy till he had 
learnt to rest and expatiate in a world to come. 
What he said to me when we became intimate is 
worthy of observation : that, he said, which first 
made him dissatisfied with the creed he had adopt- 
ed, and the standard of practice which he had set 
up for himself, was the purity of mind which he 
perceived was everywhere inculcated in the Holy 
Scriptures, and required of every one who would 
become a successful candidate for future blessed- 
ness. He had supposed that morality of conduct 
was all the purity required ; but when he observed 
that purity of the very thoughts and intentions 
of the soul also was requisite, he was convinced 
of his deficiencies, and could find no comfort to his 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 85 

penitence but in the atonement made for human 
frailty by the Redeemer of mankind ; and no 
strength adequate to his weakness, and sufficient 
for resisting evil, but the aid of God's Spirit, pro- 
mised to those who seek such from above in the 
sincerity of earnest prayer." 

From the moment when he had fully contracted 
these opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his 
life to the promulgation of them ; and therefore to 
leave the law, and, if possible, place himself at 
one of the universities. Every argument was used 
by his friends to dissuade him from his purpose, 
but to no effect ; his mind was unalterably fixed, 
and great and numerous as the obstacles were, he 
was determined to surmount them all. He had 
now served the better half of the term for which 
he was articled : his entrance and continuance in 
the profession had been a great expense to his 
family; and to give up this lucrative profession, 
in the study of which he had advanced so far, and 
situated as he was, for one wherein there was so 
little prospect of his obtaining even a decent com- 
petency, appeared to them the height of folly or 
of madness. This determination cost his poor 
mother many tears ; but determined he was, and 
that by the best and purest motives. Without 
ambition he could not have existed ; but his ambi- 
tion now was to be eminently useful in the min- 
istry. 

It was Henry's fortune through his short life, as 
he was worthy of the kindest treatment, always 
to find it. His employers, Mr. Coldham and Mr. 



8G LIFE OF 

Enfield, listened with a friendly ear to his plans, 
and agreed to give up the remainder of his time, 
though it was now become very valuable to them, 
as soon as they should think his prospects of get- 
ting through the university were such as he might 
reasonably trust to ; but, till then, they felt them- 
selves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. 
Mr. Dashwood, a clergyman, who at that time re- 
sided in Nottingham, exerted himself in his favour: 
he had a friend at Queen's College, Cambridge, 
who mentioned him to one of the fellows of St. 
John's, and that gentleman, on the representations 
made to him of Henry's talents and piety, spared 
no eifort to obtain for him an adequate support. 

As soon as these hopes were held out to him, 
his employers gave him a month's leave of ab- 
sence, for the benefit of uninterrupted study, and 
of change of air, which his health now began to 
require. Instead of going to the sea-coast, as was 
expected, he chose for his retreat the village of 
Wilford, which is situated on the banks of the 
Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. These 
woods had ever been his favourite place of resort, 
and were the subject of the longest poem in his 
little volume, from which, indeed, the volume was 
named. He delighted to point out to his more in- 
timate friends the scenery of this poem: the islet 
to which he had often forded when the river was not 
knee-deep ; and the little hut wherein he had sat 
for hours, and sometimes all day long, reading or 
writing, or dreaming with his eyes open. He had 
sometimes wandered in these woods till night was 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 87 

far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure of 
having once been overtaken there by a thunder- 
storm at midnight, and watching the hghtning over 
the river and the vale towards the town. 

In this village his mother procured lodgings for 
him, and his place of retreat was kept secret, ex- 
cept from his nearest friends. Soon after the ex- 
piration of the month, intelligence arrived that the 
plans which had been formed in his behalf had 
entirely failed. He went immediately to his mo- 
ther : " All my hopes," said he, " of getting to the 
University are now blasted ; in preparing' myself 
for it, I have lost time in my profession ; I have 
much ground to get up ; and as I am determined 
not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to 
recover what I have lost." The consequence was, 
that he applied himself more severely than ever 
to his studies. He now allowed himself no time 
for relaxation, little for his meals, and scarcely any 
for sleep. He would read till one, two, three 
o'clock in the morning ; then throw himself on the 
bed, and rise again to his work at five, at the call 
of a larum, which he had fixed to a Dutch clock 
in his chamber. Many nights he never lay down 
at all. It was in vain that his mother used every 
possible means to dissuade him from this destruc- 
tive application. In this respect, and in this only 
one, was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, 
nor tears, nor entreaties, could check his desperate 
and deadly ardor. At one time she went every 
night into his room, to put out his candle : as soon 
as he heard her coming up stairs, he used to hide 



88 LIFE OP 

it in a cupboard, throw himself into bed, and 
affect sleep while she was in the room ; then, when 
ail was quiet, rise again, and pursue his baneful 
studies. 

" The night," says Henry, in one of his letters, 
" has been every thing to me ; and did the world 
know how I have been indebted to the hours of 
repose, they would not wonder that night-images 
are, as they judge, so ridiculously predominant in 
my verses." During some of these midnight 
hours he indulged himt^elf in complaining, but in 
such complaints that it is to be wished more of 
them had been found among his papers. 

ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad : 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
And round my brow, resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine. 

Though Fancy flies away 
Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet Meditation, in her cell. 
Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear. 
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world : 
To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

What is this passing scene ] 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust. 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

Oh, what is beauty's power 1 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break 
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies'? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 

The most beloved on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete. 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 

Then since the world is vain, 

And volatile and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
8 * 



90 LIFE OP 

And cares and sorrows eat 1 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done ! 

On another paper are a few lines, written pro- 
bably in the freshness of his disappointment. 

I dream no more — the vision flies away, 

And Disappointment * * * * 

There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 

My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. 

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 

Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe 

Plunge me in glooms * * * * 

His health soon sunk under these habits : he be- 
came pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit 
of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the beau- 
tiful " Lines written in Wilford church-yard on re- 
covery from sickness." See page 334. 

His friends are of opinion that he never tho- 
roughly recovered from the shock which his con- 
stitution then sustained. Many of his poems in- 
dicate that he thought himself in danger of con- 
sumption ; he was not aware that he was genera- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 91 

ting or fostering in himself another disease little 
Jess dreadful, and which threatens intellect as well 
as life. At this time youth was in his favour, and 
his hopes, which were now again renewed, pro- 
duced perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. 
Dashwood obtained for him an introduction to Mr. 
Simeon, of King's College, and with this he was 
induced to go to Cambridge. His friend Almond, 
who had recently entered at Trinity College, had 
already endeavoured to interest in his behalf some 
persons who might be able to assist him in the 
great object of his desire, that of passing through 
the University, and qualifying himself for holy 
orders. It is neither to be wondered at, nor cen- 
sured, that his representations, where he had an 
opportunity of making them, were for the most 
part coldly received. They who have been most 
conversant with youth best understand how little 
the promises of early genius are to be relied upon : 
it is among the mortifying truths which we learn 
from experience, and no common spirit of benevo- 
lence is required to overcome the chilling effect of 
repeated disappointments. He found, however, 
encouragement from two persons, whose names 
have since become well known. Mr, Dealtry, 
then one of the mathematical lecturers at Trinity, 
was one. This gentleman, whom the love of the 
abstract sciences had not rendered intolerant of 
other pursuits more congenial to youthful imagi- 
nations, consented to look at Henry's poem of 
" TYme," a manuscript of which was in Almond's 
possession. The perusal interested him greatly : 



92 I-IFE OP 

he entered with his wonted benignity into the con 
cerns of the author : and would gladly have be- 
friended him, if the requisite assistance had not 
just at that time been secured from other quarters. 
The other person in whom Mr. Almond excited 
an interest for his friend was Henri/ Martyn, 
who has since sacrificed his life in the missionary 
service : he was then only a few years older than 
Henry ; equally ardent, equally devout, equally 
enthusiastic. He heard with emotion of this kin- 
dred spirit ; read some of his letters, and under- 
took to enter his name upon the boards of St. 
John's, (of which college he was a fellow,) saying 
that a friend in London, whose name he was not 
at liberty to communicate, had empowered him to 
assist any deserving young man with thirty pounds 
a year during his stay at the University. To in- 
sure success, one of Henry's letters was transmitted 
to this unknown friend ; and Martyn was not a 
little surprised and grieved, to learn in reply, that 
a passage in that letter seemed to render it doubt- 
ful whether the writer were a Churchman or a 
Dissenter ; and, therefore, occasioned a demur as 
to the propriety of assisting him. Just at this 
time Henry arrived at Cambridge, with an intro- 
duction to Mr. Simeon. That gentleman, being 
in correspondence with Martyn's friend in London, 
expressed displeasure at his arrival ; but the first 
interview removed all objection. Mr. Simeon, 
from Mr. Dashwood's recommendation, and from 
what he saw of his. principles and talents, pro- 
mised to procure for him a sizarship at St. John's, 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 93 

and, with the additional aid of a friend, to supply 
him with 30/, annually. His brother Neville pro- 
mised twenty ; and his mother, it was hoped, 
would be able to allow fifteen or twenty more. 
With this, it was thought, he could go through 
college. If this prospect had not been opened to 
him, he would probably have turned his thoughts 
towards the orthodox Dissenters, 

On his return to Nottingham, the Rev, 

Robinson of Leicester, and some other friends, ad- 
vised him to apply to the EUand Society for assist- 
ance, conceiving that it would be less oppressive 
to his feelings to be dependent on a Society insti- 
tuted for the express purpose of training up such 
young men as himself (that is, such in circumstan- 
ces and opinions) for the ministry, than on the 
bounty of an individual. In consequence of this 
advice he went to EUand at the next meeting of 
the Society, a stranger there, and without one 
friend among the members. He was examined, 
for several hours, by about five-and-twenty clergy- 
men, as to his religious views and sentiments, his 
theological knowledge, and his classical attain- 
ments. In the course of the inquiry it appeared 
that he had published a volume of poems : their 
questions now began to be very unpleasantly in- 
quisitive concerning the nature of these poems, and 
he was assailed by queries from all quarters. It 
was well for Henry that they did not think of re- 
ferring to the Monthly Review for authority. My 
letter to him happened to be in his pocket; he 
luckily recollected this, and produced it as a testi- 



94 LIFE OF 

moiiy in his favour. They did me the honour to 
say that it was quite sufficient, and pursued this 
part of tlieir inquiry no farther. Before he left 
Elland, he was given to understand, that they 
were well satisfied with his theological knowledge ; 
that they thought his classical proficiency prodi- 
gious for his age, and that they had placed him on 
their books. He returned little pleased with his 
journey. His friends had been mistaken : the 
bounty of an individual calls forth a sense of kind- 
ness as well as of dependence ; that of a Society 
has the virtue of charity, perhaps, but it wants the 
grace. He now wrote to Mr. Simeon, stating 
what he had done, and that the beneficence of his 
unknown friends was no longer necessary : but 
that gentleman obliged him to decline the assist- 
ance of the Society, which he very willingly did. 
This being finally arranged, he quitted his em- 
ployers in October, 1804. How much he had con- 
ducted himself to their satisfaction, will appear by 
this testimony of Mr. Enfield, to his diligence and 
uniform worth. " I have great pleasure," says 
this gentleman, "in paying the tribute to his 
memory of expressing the knowledge which was 
afforded me during the period of his connexion with 
Mr. Coldham and myself, of his diligent applica- 
tion, his ardor for study, and his virtuous and 
amiable disposition. He very soon discovered an 
unusual aptness in comprehending the routine of 
business, and great ability and rapidity in the exe- 
cution of every thing which was intrusted to him. 
His diligence and punctual attention were unre- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 95 

mitted, and his services became extremely valua- 
ble, a considerable time before he left us. He 
seemed to me to have no relish for the ordinary 
pleasures and dissipations of young men ; his mind 
was perpetually employed, either in the business 
of his profession, or in private study. With his 
fondness for literature we were well acquainted, 
but had no reason to offer any check to it, for he 
never permitted the indulgence of his literary pur- 
suits to interfere with the engagements of business. 
The difficulty of hearing, under which he labour- 
ed, was distressing to him in the practice of his 
profession, and was, I think, an inducement, in co- 
operation with his other inclinations, for his re- 
solving to relinquish the law. I can, with truth, 
assert, that his determination was matter of serious 
regret to my partner and myself" 

I may here add, as at the same time showing 
Henry's aspirations after fame and the principles 
by which he had learnt to regulate his ambition, 
that on the cover of one of his common-place books 
he had written these mottoes : 

AAAA TAP E2TIN M0T2A KAI HMIN. 

EvRiv. Medea. 1091. 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of noble minds,) 
To scorn delight and live laborious days. 

Milton's Lycidas, 70. 

Under these lines was placed a reference to the 
following extract (in another page,) from Barrow : 
" The Holy Scripture does not teach us to slight 



96 LIFE OF 

honour ; but rather, in its fit order and just mea- 
sure, to love and prove it. It directs us not to 
make a regard thereto our chief principle ; not to 
propound it as our main end of action. It charges 
us, to bear contentedly the want or loss thereof, 
as of other temporal goods ; yea, in some cases, 
for conscience-sake, or for God's service (that is, 
for a good incomparably better,) it obliges us wil- 
lingly to prostitute and sacrifice it, choosing rather 
to be infamous than impious; in disgrace with man, 
rather than in disfavour with God. It, in fine, 
commands us to seek and embrace it only in 
subordination, and with final reference to God's 
honour." 

Mr. Simeon had advised him to degrade for a 
year, and place himself, during that time, under 
some scholar. He went accordingly to the Rev. 

Grainger, of Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, 

and there, notwithstanding all the entreaties of his 
friends, pursuing the same unrelenting course of 
study, a second illness was the consequence. When 
he was recovering, he was prevailed upon to relax, 
to ride on horseback, and to drink wine : these 
latter remedies he could not long afford, and he 
would not allow himself time for relaxation when 
he did not feel its immediate necessity. He fre- 
quently, at this time, studied fourteen hours a-day : 
the progress which he made in twelve inonths was 
indeed astonishing. When he went to Cambridge, 
he was immediately as much distinguished for his 
classical knowledge as his genius : but the seeds 
of death were in him, and the place to which he 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 97 

had so long looked on with hope, served unhap- 
pily as a hot-house to ripen them.* 

During his first term one of the university- 
scholarships became vacant, and Henry, young as 
he was in college, and almost self-taught, was ad- 
vised, by those who were best able to estimate his 
chance of success, to offer himself as a candidate 
for it. He passed the whole time in preparing 
himself for this, reading for college subjects in bed, 
in his walks, or, as he says, where, v/hen, and how 
he could, never having a moment to spare, and 
often going to his tutor without having read at all. 
His strength sunk under this, and though he had 
declared himself a candidate, he was compelled to 
decline : but this was not the only misfortune. 
The general college-examination came on ! he was 
utterly unprepared to meet it, and believed that a 
failure here would have ruined his prospects for 
ever. He had only about a fortnight to read what 
other men had been the whole term reading. 
Once more he exerted himself beyond what his 
shattered health could bear : the disorder returned; 
and he went to his tutor, Mr. Catton, with tears 

* During his residence in my family, says Mr, Grainger, 
his conduct was highly becoming, and suitable to a Christian 
profession. He was mild and inoffensive, modest, unassu- 
ming, and affectionate. He attended, with great cheerful- 
ness, a Sunday School which I was endeavouring to establish 
in the village ; and was at considerable pains in the instruc- 
tion of the children: and I have repeatedly observed, that 
he was most pleased, and most edified, with such of my ser- 
mons and addresses to my people as were most close, plain, 
and familiar. When we parted, we parted with mutual re- 
gret ; and by us his name will long be remembered with 
affection and delight. 

9 



98 LIFE OP 

in his eyes, and told him that he could not go into 
the hall to be examined. Mr. Catton, however, 
thought his success here of so much importance, 
that he exhorted him, with all possible earnestness, 
to hold out the six days of the examination. 
Strong medicines were given him, to enable him 
to support it ; and he was pronounced the first 
man of his year. But life was the price which 
he was to pay for such honours as this ; and Hen- 
ry is not the first young man to whom such ho- 
nours have proved fatal. He said to his most in- 
timate friend, almost the last time he saw him, 
that were he to paint a picture of Fame crowning 
a distinguished under-graduate, after the Senate- 
house examination, he would represent her as 
concealing a death's-head under a mask of beauty. 
When this was over he went to London. Lon- 
don was a new scene of excitement, — and what 
his mind required was tranquillity and rest. Be- 
fore he left college, he had become anxious con- 
cerning his expenses, fearing that they exceeded 
his means. Mr. Catton perceived this, and twice 
called him to his rooms, to assure him of every 
necessary support, and every encouragement, and 
to give him every hope. This kindness relieved 
his spirits of a heavy weight, and on his return he 
relaxed a little from his studies, but it was only a 
little. I found among his papers the 'day thus 
planned out : — " Rise at half past five. Devotions 
and walk till seven. Chapel and breakfast till 
eight. Study and lectures till one. Four and a 
half clear reading. Walk, etc. and dinner, and 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 99 

Wollaston, and chapel to six. Six to nine, read- 
ing — three hours. Nine to ten, devotions. Bed 
at ten." 

Among his latest writings are these resolutions : 
— " I will never be in bed after six. 
I will not drink tea out above once a week, except- 
ing on Sundays, unless there appear some good 
reason for so doing. 
I will never pass a day without reading some por- 
tion of the Scriptures. 
I will labour diligently in my mathematical stu- 
dies, because I half suspect myself of a dislike 
to them. 
I will walk two hours a day, upon the average 
of every week. 

Sit mihi gratia addita ad hozc facienda.*^ 

About this time, judging by the handwriting, 
he wrote down the following admonitory sen- 
tences, which, as the paper on which they are 
written is folded into the shape of a very small 
book, it is probable he carried about with him as 
a manual. 

« 1. Death and judgment are near at hand. 

2. Though thy bodily part be now in health 
and ease, the dews of death will s.oon sit upon 
thy forehead. 

3. That which seems so sweet and desirable to 
thee now, will, if yielded to, become bitterness of 
soul to thee all thy life after. 

4. When the waters are come over thy soul, 



100 LIFE OP 

and when, in the midst of much bodily anguish, 
thou distinguishest the dim shores of Eternity be- 
fore thee, what wouldst thou not give to be 
lighter by this one sin. 

5. God haslong withheld his arm; what if his 
forbearance be now at an end ? Canst thou not 
contemplate these things with the eyes of death ? 
Art thou not a dying man, dying every day, every 
hour? 

6. Is it not a fearful thing to shrink from the 
summons when it comes ? — to turn with horror 
and despair from the future being ? Think what 
strains of joy and tranquillity fall on the ear of 
the saint who is just swooning into the arms of 
his Redeemer : what fearful shapes, and dreadful 
images of a disturbed conscience, surround the 
sinner's bed, when the last twig which he grasped 
fails him, and the gulf yawns to receive him ! 

7. Oh, my soul, if thou art yet ignorant of the 
enormity of sin, turn thine eyes to. the Man who 
is bleeding to death on the cross ! See how the 
blood, from his pierced hands, trickles down his 
arms, and the more copious streams from his feet 
run on the accursed tree, and stain the grass with 
purple ! Behold his features, though scarcely ani- 
mated with a few remaining sparks of life, yet 
how full of love, pity, and tranquillity ! A tear is 
trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers. — 
He is praying for his murderers ! 0, my soul ! it 
is thy Redeemer — it is thy God ! And this, too, 
for Sin — for Sin ! and wilt thou ever again sub- 
mit to its yoke ? " 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 101 

8. Remember that the grace of the Holy Spirit 
of God is ready to save thee from transgression. 
It is always at hand: thou canst not sin without 
wilfully rejecting its aid. 

9. And is there real pleasure in sin? Thou 
knowest there is not. But there is pleasure, pure 
and exquisite pleasure, in holiness. The Holy 
Ghost can make the paths of religion and virtue, 
hard as they seem, and thorny, ways of pleasant- 
ness and peace, where, though there be thorns, 
yet are there also roses ; and where all the wounds 
which we suffer in the flesh, from the hardness of 
the journey, are so healed by the balm of the 
Spirit, that they rather give joy than pain." 

The exercise which Henry took was no relaxa- 
tion : he still continued the habit of studying 
while he walked ; and in this mamier, while he 
was at Cambridge, committed to memory a whole 
tragedy of Euripides. Twice he distinguished 
himself in the following year, being again pro- 
nounced first at the great college-examination, and 
also one of the three best theme-writers between 
whom the exammers could not decide. The col- 
lege ofiered him, at their expense, a private tutor 
in mathematics during the long vacation ; and Mr. 
Catton, by procuring for him exhibitions to the 
amount of ^66 6 per annum, enabled him to give 
up the pecuniary assistance which he had received 
from Mr. Simeon and other friends. This inten- 
tion he had expressed in a letter written twelve 
months before his death. " With regard to my 
college-expenses (he says,)I have the pleasure to 
9* 



102 LIFE OF 

inform you, that I shall be obliged, in strict recti- 
tude, to waive the offers of many of my friends. 
I shall not even need the sum Mr. Simeon men- 
tioned after the first year ; and it is not impossible 
that I may be able to live without any assistance 
at all. I confess I feel pleasure at the thought of 
this, not through any vain pride of independence, 
but because I shall then give a more unbiassed 
testimony to the truth, than if I were supposed to 
be bound to it by any ties of obligation or grati- 
tude. I shall always feel as much indebted for 
intended as for actually afforded assistance ; and 
though I should never think a sense of thankful- 
ness an oppressive burden, yet I shall be happy 
to evince it, when, in the eyes of the world, the 
obligation to it has been discharged." Never, 
perhaps, had any young man, in so short a time, 
excited such expectations : every university- 
honour was thought to be within his reach ; he was 
set down as a medallist, and expected to take a 
senior wrangler's degree : but these expectations 
were poison to him; they goaded him to fresh 
exertions when his strength was spent. His sit- 
uation became truly miserable : to his brother, 
and to his mother, he wrote always that he had 
relaxed in his studies, and that he was better ; al- 
ways holding out to them his hopes, and his good 
fortune ; but to the most intimate of his friends 
(Mr. B. Maddock,) his letters told a different tale : 
to him he complained of dreadful palpitations — ■ 
of nights of sleeplessness and horror, and of spirits 
depressed to the very depth of wretchedness, so 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 103 

that he went from one acquaintance to another, 
implormg society, even as a starving beggar en- 
treats for food. During the course of this sum- 
mer, it was expected that the mastership of the 
free-school at Nottingham would shortly become 
vacant, A relation of his family was at that time 
mayor of the town ; he suggested to them what 
an advantageous situation it would be for Henry, 
and offered to secure for him the necessary inter- 
est. But though the salary and emoluments are 
estimated at from 56400 to £600 per annum, Henry 
declined the offer ; because, had he accepted it, it 
would have frustrated his intentions with respect 
to the ministry. This was certainly no common 
act of forbearance in one so situated as to for- 
tune, especially as the hope which he had most at 
heart, was that of being enabled to assist his family, 
and in some degree requite the care and anxiety 
of his father and mother, by making them com- 
fortable in their declining years. 

The indulgence shown him by his college, in 
providing him a tutor during the long vacation, 
was peculiarly unfortunate. His only chance of 
life was from relaxation, and home was the only 
place where he would have relaxed to any pur- 
pose. Before this time he had seemed to be gain- 
ing strength ; it failed as the year advanced : he 
went once more to London to recruit himself, — ^the 
worst place to which he could have gone : the 
variety of stimulating objects there hurried and 
agitated him ; and when he returned to college, 
he was so completely ill, that no power of medicine 



104 LIFE OF 

could save him. His mind was worn out ; and it 
was the opinion of his medical attendants, that if 
he had recovered, his intellect would have been 
affected. His brother Neville was just at this time 
to have visited him. On his first seizure, Henry 
found himself too ill to receive him, and wrote to 
say so : he added, with that anxious tenderness 
towards the feelings of a most affectionate family, 
which always appeared in his letters, that he 
thought himself recovering ; but his disorder in- 
creased so rapidly, that this letter was never sent ; 
it was found in his pocket after his decease. One 
of his friends wrote to acquaint Neville with his 
danger: he hastened down; but Henry was 
delirious when he arrived. He knew him only for 
a few moments ; tlie next day, sunk into a state 
of stupor; and on Sunday, October 10th, 1806, it 
pleased God to remove him to a better world, and 
a higher state of existence. 

***** 

The will which I had manifested to serve Hen- 
ry, he had accepted as the deed, and had express- 
ed himself upon the subject in terms which it 
would have humbled me to read, at any other time 
than when I was performing the last service to his 
memory. On his decease, Mr. B. Maddock ad- 
dressed a letter to me, informing me of the event, 
as one who had professed an interest in his friend's 
fortunes. I inquired, in my reply, if there was 
any intention of publishing what he might have 
left, and if I could be of any assistance in the 
publication : this led to a correspondence with his 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 105 

excellent brother, and the whole of his papers 
were consigned into my hands, with as many of 
his letters as could be collected. 

These papers (exclusive of the correspondence) 
filled a box of considerable size. Mr. Coleridge 
was present when I opened them, and was, as 
well as myself, equally affected and astonished at 
the proofs of industry which they displayed. 
Some of them had been written before his hand 
was formed, probably before he was thirteen. 
There were papers upon law, upon electricity, upon 
chemistry, upon the Latui and Greek Languages, 
from their rudiments to the higher branches of 
critical study, upon history, chronology, divinity, 
the fathers, etc. Nothing seemed to have escaped 
him. His poems were numerous : among the 
earliest was a sonnet addressed to myself, long 
before the little intercourse which had subsisted 
between us had taken place. Little did he think, 
when it was written, on what occasion it would 
fall into my hands. He had begun three tragedies 
when very young ; one was upon Boadicea, 
another upon Inez de Castro : the third was a ficti- 
tious subject. He had planned also a history of 
Nottingham. There was a letter upon the famous 
Nottingham election, which seemed to have been 
intended either for the newspapers, or for a sepa- 
rate pamphlet. It was written to confute the ab- 
surd stories of the Tree of Liberty, and the God- 
dess of Reason ; with the most minute knowledge 
of the circumstances, and a not improper feeling 
of indignation against so infamous a calumny : 



106 LIFE OF 

and this came with more weight from him, as his 
party inclinations seemed to have leaned towards 
the side which he was opposing. This was his 
only finished compositton in prose. Much of his 
time, latterly, had been devoted to the study of 
Greek prosody : he had begun several poems in 
Greek, and a translation of the Samson Agonistes. 
I have inspected all the existing manuscripts of 
Chatterton, and they excited less wonder than 
these. 

Had my knowledge of Henry terminated here, 
I should have hardly believed that my admiration 
and regret for him could have been increased ; but 
I had yet to learn that his moral qualities, his 
good sense, and his whole feelings, were as admi- 
rable as his industry and genius. All his letters 
to his family have been communicated to me 
without reserve, and most of those to his friends. 
They make him his own biographer, and lay open 
as pure and as excellent a heart as it ever pleased 
the Almighty to warm into life. 

It is not possible to conceive a human being 
more amiable in all the relations of life. He was 
the confidential friend and adviser of every mem- 
ber of his family : this he instinctively became ; 
and the thorough good sense of his advice is not 
less remarkable, than the afiection with which it 
is always communicated. To his mother he is as 
earnest in beseeching her to be careful of her 
health, as he is in labouring to convince her that 
his own complaints were abating : his letters to 
her are always of hopes, of consolation, and of 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 107 

love. To Neville he writes with the most broth- 
erly intimacy, still, however, in that occasional 
tone of advice which it was his nature to assume, 
not from any arrogance of superiority, but from 
earnestness of pure affection. . To his younger 
brother he addresses himself like the tenderest and 
wisest parent ; and to two sisters, then too young 
for any other communication, he writes to direct 
their studies, to inquire into their progress, to 
encourage and to improve them. Such letters as 
these are not for the public ; but they to whom 
they are addressed will lay them to their hearts 
like relics, and will find in them a saving virtue, 
more than ever relics possessed. 

With regard to his poems, the criterion for selec- 
tion was not so plain ; undoubtedly many have 
been chosen which he himself would not have 
published ; and some few which, had he lived to 
have taken that rank among English poets which 
would assuredly have been within his reach, 1 
also should then have rejected among his post- 
humous papers. I have, however, to the best of 
my judgment, selected none which does not either 
mark the state of his mind, or its progress, or dis- 
cover evident proofs of what he would have been, 
if it had not been the will of Heaven to remove 
him so soon. The reader, who feels any admira- 
tion for Henry, will take some interest in all these 
Remains, because they are his : he who shall feel 
none must have a blind heart, and therefore a 
blind understanding. Such poems are to be con- 
sidered as making up his history. But the greater 



lOS I'IFE OF 

number are of such beauty, that Chatterton is 
the only youthful poet whom he does not leave 
far behind him. 

While he was under Mr, Grainger he wrote very 
little ; and when he went to Cambridge he was 
advised to stifle his poetical fire, for severer and 
more important studies; to lay a billet on the 
embers until he had taken his degree, and then he 
might fan it into a flame again. This advice he 
followed so scrupulously, that a few fragments, 
written chiefly upon the back of his mathemati- 
cal papers, are all which he produced at the Uni- 
versity. The greater part, therefore, of these 
poems, indeed nearly the whole of them, were writ- 
ten before he was nineteen. Wise as the advice 
may have been which had been given him, it is 
now to be regretted that he adhered to it, his lat- 
ter fragments bearing all those marks of improve- 
ment which were to be expected from a mind so 
rapidly and continually progressive. Frequently 
he expresses a fear that early death would rob 
him of his fame ; yet, short as his life was, it has 
been long enough for him to leave works worthy 
of remembrance. The very circumstance of his 
early death gives a new interest to his memory, 
and thereby new force to his example. Just at 
that age when the painter would have wished to 
fix his likeness, and the lover of poetry 'would de- 
Hght to contemplate him, — in the fair morning of 
his virtues, the full spring-blossom of his hopes, — ■ 
just at that age hath death set the seal of eternity 
upon him, and the beautiful hath been made per- 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. l09 

manent. To the young poets who come after him, 
Henry will be what Chatterton was to him ; and 
they will find in him an example of hopes with 
regard to worldly fortune, as humble, and as ex- 
alted in all better things, as are enjoined equally 
by wisdom and religion, by the experience of man, 
and the word of God : and this example will be 
as encouraging as it is excellent. It has been too 
much the custom to complain that genius is 
neglected, and to blame the public when the public 
is not in fault. They who are thus lamented as 
the victims of genius, have been, in almost every 
instance, the victims of their own vices; while 
genius has been made, like charity, to cover a 
multitude of sins, and to excuse that which in 
reality it aggravates. In this age, and in this coun- 
try, whoever deserves encouragement is sooner or 
later, sure to receive it. Of this Henry's history 
is an honourable proof. The particular patronage 
which he accepted was given as much to his piety 
and religious opinions as to his genius : but assist- 
ance was offered him from other quarters. Mr. 
P. Thomson (of Boston, Lincolnshire,) merely 
upon perusing his little volume, wrote to know 
how he could serve him ; and there were many 
friends of literature who were ready to have 
afforded him any support which he needed, if he 
had not been thus provided. In the University 
he received every encouragement which he 
merited; and from Mr. Simeon, and his tutor, 
Mr. Catton, the most fatherly kindness. 

" I can venture," says a lady of Cambridge, in 
10 



110 LIFE oy 

a letter to his brother, — " I can venture to say, 
with certainty, there was no member of the Uni- 
versity, however high his rank or talents, who 
would not have been happy to have availed them- 
selves of the opportunity of being acquainted 
with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I mention this to 
introduce a wish which has been expressed to me 
so often by the senior members of the University, 
that I dare not decline the task they have imposed 
upon me ; it is their hope that Mr. Southey will 
do as much justice to Mr. Henry White's limited 
wishes, to his unassuming pretensions, and to his 
rational and fervent piety, as to his various ac- 
quirements, his polished taste, his poetical fancy, 
his undeviating principles, and the excellence of 
his moral character : and that he will suffer it to 
be understood, that these inestimable qualities had 
not been unobserved, nor would they have 
remained unacknowledged. It was the general 
observation, that he possessed genius without its 
eccentricities." Of fervent piety, indeed, his let- 
ters, his prayers, and his hymns, will afford ample 
and interesting proofs. It was in him a living and 
quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified 
all his hopes and all his affections ; which made 
him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled 
him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever 
displayed, of human imperfection. 

His temper had been irritable in his younger 
days ; but this he had long since effectually over- 
come : the marks of youthful confidence, which 
appear in his earliest letters, had also disappeared} 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE. ILl 

and it was impossible for any man to be more 
tenderly patient of the faults of others, more 
uniformly meek, or more unaffectedly humble. He 
seldom discovered any sportiveness of imagina- 
tion, though he would very ably and pleasantly 
rally any one of his friends for any little peculi- 
arity ; his conversation was always sober and to 
the purpose. That which is most remarkable in 
him, is his uniform good sense, a faculty perhaps 
less common than genius. There never existed a 
more dutiful son, a more affectionate brother, a 
warmer friend, nor a devouter Christian. Of his 
powers of mind it is superfluous to speak ; they 
were acknowledged wherever they were known. 
It would be idle, too, to say what hopes were 
entertained of him, and what he might have accom- 
plished in literature. This volume contains what 
he has left, immature buds and blossoms shaken 
from the tree, and green fruit ; yet will they evince 
what the harvest would have been, and secure for 
him that remembrance upon earth for which he 
toiled. 

Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, 
Thou happy soul ! and can it be 

That these 

Are all that must remain of thee ! 

WoEDfe WORTH. 

Keswick, 1807. 



CLIFTON GROVE 



AND 



OTHER POEMS, 

BY 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



10 



(113) 



TO HER GRACE 

THE 

DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIEE, 

THE FOLLOWING TRIFLING EFFUSIONS 

OF A VERY YOUTHFUL MUSE 

ABE BY PEEMISSION DEDICATED 

BY HER GRACE'S 

MUCH OBLIGED AND GRATEFUL SERVANT 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 

(114) 



PREFACE. 



The following attempts in Verse are laid before 
the public with extreme diffidence. The Author 
'is very conscious that the juvenile efforts of a 
'youth, who has not received the polish of Academ- 
ical discipline, and who has been but sparingly 
blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of 
scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective 
in the accuracy and finished elegance which mark 
the works of the man who has passed his life in 
the retirement of his study, furnishing his mind 
with images, and at the same time attaining the 
power of disposing those images to the best advan- 
tage. 

The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from 
his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisi- 
tion of literary information, but in the more active 
business of life, must not be expected to exhibit 
any considerable portion of the correctness of a 
Virgil, or the vigorous compression of a Horace. 
Men are not, I believe, frequently known to be- 
stow much labour on their amusements : and these 
Poems were, most of them, written merely to be- 
guile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid in- 
tervals of studies of a severer nature. 

TIa.; TO oiiciio; e^yov aynTTaai, " Evcry OUC loVeS his OWn 

work," says the Stagy rite ; but it was no over- 
weening affection of this kind which induced this 
publication. Had the author relied on his own 
judgment only, these Poems would not, in all pro- 
bability, ever have seen the light. 

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are his 
motives for this publication ? He answers — simply 

115 



116 PREFACE. 

these : The facihtation, through its means, of those 
studies which, from his earliest infancy, have been 
the principal objects of his ambition ; and the in- 
crease of the capacity to pursue those inclinations 
which may one day place him in an honourable 
station in the scale of society. 

The principal Poem in this little collection (Clif- 
ton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in numbers and 
harmonious coherency of parts. It is, however, 
merely to be regarded as a description of a noc- 
turnal ramble in that charming retreat, accompa- 
nied with such reflections as the scene naturally 
suggested. It was written twelve months ago, 
when the author was in his sixteenth year. — The 
Miscellanies are some of them the productions of 
a very early age. — Of the Odes that " To an early 
Primrose" was written at thirteen — the others are 
of a later date. — The Sonnets are chiefly irregular; 
they have, perhaps, no other claim to that specific 
denomination, than that they consist only of four- 
teen lines. 

Such are the Poems towards which I entreat 
the lenity of the public. The critic will doubt- 
less find in them much to condenm ; he may like- 
wise possibly discover something to commend. 
Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and 
in the work of that correction which I invite, let 
him remember he is holding the iron mace of 
criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth 
of seventeen, and, remembering that, may he for- 
bear from crushing, by too much rigour, the pain- 
ted butterfly whose transient colours may other- 
wise be capable of affording a moment's innocent 
amusement, 

H. K. WHITE, 

Nottingham. 



TO MY LYRE. 

AN ODE. 



I. 

Thou simple Lyre ! — Thy music wild 

Has served to charm the weaiy hour, 
And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
When even pain has own'd and smiled. 
Its fascinating power. 

II. 

Yet, oh my Lyre ! the busy crowd 
Will little heed thy simple tones : 
Them mightier minstrels harping loud 
Engross, — and thou and I must shroud 
Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

III. 

No hand, thy diapason o'er. 

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime ; 
For me, no academic lore 
Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 

Or build the polish'd rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet thou to Sylvan themes can soar ; 

Thou know'st to charm the woodland tram t 
The rustic swains believe thy power 
Can hush the wild winds when they roar. 

And still the billowy main.. 

117 



118 TO MY LYRE. 

V. 

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
I, still unknown, may live with thee, 
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep 
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, 
Beneath the alder tree. 

VI. 

This little dirge will please me more 

Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; 
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
For me, that from some kindred eye 
The trickling tear should steal. 

VII. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 

Perhaps from me debarr'd : 
And dear to me the classic zone. 
Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd 

Adorns the accepted bard. [throne 

VIII. 

And ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
Where Cam or Isis winds along. 

Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, 

I yet might call the ear of taste 
To listen to my song. 

IX. 

Oh ! then, my little friend, thy style' 

I'd change to happier lays, 
Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, 
And through the long, the fretted aisle 

Should swell the note of praise. 



CLIFTON GROVE: 

A SKETCH IN VERSE. 



Lo ! in the west, fast fades the hngering hght^ 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
No more is heard the woodman's measured stroke 
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ; 
No more hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head. 
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed ; 
Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds. 
And general silence reigns, save when below, 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow ; 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late. 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale. 
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 
Released from day and its attendant toil. 
And draws his household round their evening fire. 
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 
And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 
The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom. 
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 

119 



120 H. K. white's poems. 

And rushes out, impatient to begin 
The stated course of customary sin ; 
Now, now my soUtary way I bend 
Where solemn groves in awful state impend. 
And cliffs, that boldly rise above the plain. 
Bespeak, bless'd Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 
Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
I come to pass the meditative hour ; 
To bid awhile the strife of passion cease. 
And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on high 
Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 
Genius of woodland shades ! whose niild control 
Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, 
Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire 
My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 
And thou too. Fancy, from thy starry sphere. 
Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine ear, 
Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
At thy command the gale that passes by 
Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 
Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms ap- 
pear ! 
On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ! 
The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale. 
And hosts of Sylphids on the moon-beams sail. 

This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight. 
Where meeting trees create eternal night ; 
Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day ; 



CLIFTON GROVE. 121 

Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, 
Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, 
I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 
Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; 
Or woke with song the woodland echo wild. 
And at each gay response delighted smiled. 
How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 
Of gay romance o'er every happy day. 
Here would I run, a visionary boy. 
When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 
And, faney-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 
And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost soul, 
His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare 
The volley 'd hghtnings cleave the sullen air ; 
And, as the warring winds around reviled. 
With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 
Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which endears 
This silent spot to my advancing years. 
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest. 
In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. 
While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
And thou too. Inspiration, whose wild flame 
Shoots with electric swiftness through the frame, 
Thou here dost love to sit with up-turn'd eye. 
And listen to the stream that murmurs by. 
The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken flight, 
The mellow music of the listening night. 
Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, 
11 



123 H. K. white's poems. 

To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I raise, ' 
That ye may bless my unambitious days, 
Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of strife, 
May trace with me the lowly vale of life. 
And when her banner Death shall o'er me wave, 
May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 
Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
No more above th' embracing branches meet. 
No more the river gurgles at my feet. 
But seen deep, down the cliff's impending side. 
Through hanging woods,now gleams its silver tide. 
Dim is my upland path, — across the Green 
Fantastic shadows flin^, yet oft between [sheds. 
The chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste ray 
Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful 

heads, 
And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees. 
Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal breeze. 

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight. 
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow. 
And gives to him alone his bliss to know. 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms ? 
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms ? 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous breath, 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and 'death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings, 
Know what calm joy from purer sources springs ; 
Could he but feel how sweet, how free from strife. 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 



CLIFTON GROVE. 123 

No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 
The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
But the sweet portion he was wont to sip, 
Would turn to poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms ! 
Thine are the sweets which never, never sate. 
Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine com- 
mand 
To roll in acres of paternal land. 
Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 
Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss. 
Who, still in abject poverty or pain. 
Can count with pleasure what small joys remain : 
Though were his sight convey'd from zone to zone. 
He would not find one spot of ground his own. 
Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee. 
These bounding prospects all were made for me : 
For me yon waving fields their burden bear. 
For me yon labourer guides the shining share, 
While happy I in idle ease recline, 
And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 
This is the charm, by sages often told. 
Converting all it touches into gold. 
Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
Can rear a garden in the desert waste. 



124 H. K. white's poems. 

How lovely, from this hill's superior height, 
Spreads the wide view before my straining sight ! 
O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, 
E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound. 
My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene. 
The silver moon illumes the misty scene ; 
Now shining clear, now darkening in the glade, 
In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies, 

The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 

No more, where late the social fagot blazed, 

The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 

But iock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star 

The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car : 

The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the 

glade. 
The solemn hour for walking spectres made ; 
The simple plough-boy, wakening with the sound. 
Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, 
Then stops his ears, and strives to close his eyes. 
Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
Now ceased the long, and monitory toll, 
Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 
Save when,disturb'd by dreams, with wild affright. 
The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled night : 
Or where the village ale-house crowns the vale. 
The creeking sign-post whistles to the gale. i 

A little onward let me bend my way, 
Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's stay. 

* The Constellation Delphinus. For authority for this 
appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, B. xi. 113. 



CLIFTON GROVE. 125 

That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 
That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it name : 
There yet the primrose opes its earUest bloom, 
There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 
And in the branch that rears above the rest 
The robin unmolested -builds its nest. 
'Twas here, when hope, presiding o'er my breast, 
In vivid colours every prospect dress'd : 
'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, 
And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 
Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 
Why, bland deceiver ! not renew the cheat ! 
Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 
That thy illusions can no more deceive ! 
Time's sombrous tints have every view over- 
spread. 
And thou too, gay seducer ; art thou fled ? 
Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 
Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her tear. 
And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way, 
Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 
How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 
How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; 
The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 
And all is buried in redoubled night. 
Yet some can rise superior to their pain. 
And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : 
While others,, dead to feeling, can survey. 
Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : 
But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast ! 
Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast, 

11 * 



126 H. K. white's poems. 

And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks the 

gloom, 
To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
So in these shades the early primrose blows. 
Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows, 
So falls untimely on the desert waste ; 
Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

Now pass'd what'er the upland heights display, 
Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way ; 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat. 
The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 
Andoh ! how sweet this walk o'erhung with wood, 
That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
What rising views prolong the calm delight ; 
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent. 
The woody island, and the naked mead. 
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed. 
The rural wicket, and the rural stile. 
And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's pile. 
Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 
Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession rise. 
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend. 
And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
Around, what sounds, what magic sounds, arise. 
What glimmering scenes salute my ravish ''d eyes ? 
Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed. 
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 
And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind. 
Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 



CLIFTON GROVE. 127 

Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, 
Save when is heard, between each dreary rest, 
Discordant from her solitary nest. 
The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering moon ; 
Now riding, cloud-wrapt, near her highest noon . 
Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither rides, 
And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 

How oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth 
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth. 
Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid sung 
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ! 
That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear. 
And (lulled to rest stern Reason's harsh control) 
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. [wind. 
These hallow 'd shades, — these trees that woo the 
Recall its faintest features to my mind. 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime. 
Have swept beneath the silent wing of time. 
Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
Reclusely dwelt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 
The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 
Confess'd in private his peculiar pain. 
In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair. 
Nor dared to hope to win the peerless fair. 
No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 
Attuned to gaiety his artless reed. 
No more entwined the pansied wreath, to deck 
His favourite wether's unpolluted neck. 



128 H. K, WHITE S POEMS. 

But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined 
He mixed his sobbings with the passing wind, 
JBemoan'd his helpless love ; or, boldly bent, 
Far from these smiling fields, a rover went. 
O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, 
A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain ; 
Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in vain. 
Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching boughs, 
The echoing vault responded to their vows. 
As here deep hidden from the glare of day, 
Enamour 'd oft, they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her flame. 
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie, 
When evening slumber'd on the western sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare, 
Each bears mementos of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
With the fall'n honours of the mourning trees. 
The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower. 
And waited long beyond the appointed hour. 
Yet Bateman came not ; — o'er the woodland drear. 
Howling portentous, did the winds career ; 
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods. 
The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods ; 
The night was dark ; as, now and then, the 

gale 
Paused for a moment, — Margaret listen'd, pale ; 



CLIFTON GROVE, 129 

But through the covert to her anxiops ear, 
No rusthng footstep spoke her lover near, [why, 
Strange fears now fill,d her breast, — she knew not 
She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each sigh. 
She hears a noise, — 'tis he, — he comes at last ; — 
Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past : 
But now she hears a quickening footstep sound, 
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound ; 
'Tis Bateman's self, — ^he springs into her arms, 
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
" Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, 
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet speak, 
Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek ? 
Say, what is wrong ?" — Now, through a parting 

cloud, [shroud. 

The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous 
And Bateman's face was seen : — 'twas deadly 

white. 
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
" Oh, speak my love !" again the maid conjured, 
Why is thy heart in sullen wo immured ?" 
He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell. 
Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell ; 
When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : 
" Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn advance, 
I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
I go to languish in a foreign land. • 
Oh, Margaret ! omens dire have met my view. 
Say, when far distant, wilt thau bear me true ? 



130 H. K. white's poems. 

Should honours tempt thee, and should riches fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 
And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined. 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind?" 

" Oh ! why," replies the maid," my faith thus prove, 
Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then suspect my love ? 
Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous heart, 
My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall part, 
If, when he hail again his native shore. 
He finds his Margaret true to him no more. 
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured bed, 
And hurl me headlong down these awful steeps, 
To find deserved death in yonder deeps !"* 

Thus spake the maid, and from her finger drew 

A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 

One half she in her lovely bosom hides. 

The other, trembling, to her love confides. 

" This bind the vow," she said, "this mystic charm, 

No future recantation can disarm. 

The right vindictive does the fates involve. 

No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." 

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry. 
The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
And once again the Lady of the night 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she view'd these portents with dismay : 
But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 

* This part of the Trent is commonly called » The Clif- 
ton Deeps.'''' 



CLIFTON GROVE. 131 

Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, 
A lonely life the moody maiden led. [walk, 

Still would she trace each dear, each well-known 
Still by the moonlight to her love would talk. 
And fancy, as she paced among the trees, 
She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 
Thus two years glided on in silent grief; 
The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: [flame 
Absence had cool'd her love — the impoverish'd 
Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter came ; 
He ofFer'd wealth, and all the joys of life. 
And the weak maid became another's wife ! 

Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's crime, 

When Bateman hail'd once more his native clime, 

Sure of her constancy, elate he came. 

The lovely partner of his soul to claim. 

Light was his heart, as up the well-known way 

He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were gay. 

Oh! who can paint his agonizing throes^ 

When on his ear the fatal news arose ! 

Chill'd with amazement, — senseless with the blow, 

He stood a marble monument of wo ; 

Till called to ail the horrors of despair, 

He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; 

Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot. 

And sought those scenes, (by memory ne'er forgot,) 

Those scenes, the witness of their growmg flame, 

And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 



132 H. K. white's poems. 

'Twas night — he sought the river's lonely shore, 
And traced again their former wanderings o'er. 
Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, 
And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 
Death in his mein and madness in his eye. 
He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; 
Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his grave — 
Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent. 
Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. 
He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the wind, 
And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 
The willows waved, the stream it sweetly swept. 
The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, 
And all was peace ; — he felt the general calm 
O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie. 
His Margaret, luU'd in Germain's* arms to rest. 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling hand, 
Cast his dark eye once more upon the land. 
Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding bank, 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound. 

As in the stream he plunged, was heard around : 

Then all was still — the wave was rough no more. 

The river swept as sweetly as before ; 

The willows waved, the moonbeams shone serene. 

And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 



CLIFTON GROVE. 133 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 
Full "Well she knew, repentant now too late, 
She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 
But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, 
The offended God prolonged her life unbless'd. 
But fast the fleeting moments rolPd away, 
And near, and nearer drew the dreaded day ; 
That day, foredoom'd to give her child the light. 
And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 
The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 
The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 
As night drew on, around her bed, a band 
Of friends and kindred kindly took their stand ; 
In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time. 
Intent to expiate her awful crime. [came, 

Their prayers were fruitless. — As the midnight 
A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. 
In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming load. 
Some power unseen their drowsy lids bestrode. 
They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 
The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye ; 
Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd bed. 
But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 
And never more the weeping train were doom'd 
To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 

The neighbouring rustics told that in the night 
They heard such screams as froze them with affright ; 
And many an infant, at its mother's breast, 
Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 



12 



134 H. K. white's poems. 

And even now, upon the heath forlorn, [borne, 
They show the path down which the fair was 
By the fell demons, to the yawning wave. 
Her own, and murder 'd lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear. 
Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening ear, 
That tale, which bade me find redoubled sweets 
In the drear silence of these dark retreats, 
And even now, with melancholy power, 
Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven. 
With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, • 
And breathes a mellower gloom upon the woods ; 
This, as the distant cataract swells around, 
Gives a romantic cadence to the sound ; 
This and the deepening glen, the alley green, 
The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, 
The massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, 
The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees. 
The lengthening vista, and the present gloom. 
The verdant pathway breathing waste perfume ; 
These are thy charms, the joys which these impart 
Bind thee, bless'd Clifton ! close around my heart. 

Dear Native Grove ! where'er my devious track. 
To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray. 
Or where « Oswego's swamps" obstruct the day ; 



CLIFTON GROVE. 135 

Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, 
The tumbhng torrent laves St. Gothard's side 5 
Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse. 
Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer home. 
When Splendor offers, and when Fame incites, 
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights. 
Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change. 
Renounce the wish which first induced to range ; 
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes 

once more, 
Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, 
And, tired with worlds, and all their busy ways, 
Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny. 
And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
Oh ! should it please the world's supernal King, 
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall sing; 
Or that my corse should, on some desert strand, 
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoon's blasting hand; 
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb. 
My sprite shall wander through this favourite gloom, 
Ride on the wind that sweeps the leafless grove, 
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove. 
Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave. 
And mix its moanings with the desert wave. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



GONDOLINE; 

A BALLAD. 



The night it was still, and the moon it shone 

Serenely on the sea, 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmur'd pleasantly. 

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, 

A maiden full fair to the sight ; 
Though love had made bleak the rose on her 
cheek, 

And turned it to deadly white. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent tear 

It fill'd her faint blue eye. 
As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear. 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good King's men. 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 

136 



GONDOLINE. 137 

And many a month had pass'd away, 

And many a rolling year, 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

FuU oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The Ocean's misty face ; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark 

She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light 

In the high rock's lonely tower, 
To guide her lover to the land, 

Should the murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast, 

And sunken in her eye ; 
" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace will die." 

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore. 

The Curlew scream'd above. 
She heard the scream with a sickening heart 

Much boding of her love. 

Yet still she kept her lonely way. 

And this was all her cry, 
" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live. 

And I in peace shall die." 

And now she came to a horrible rift. 
All in the rock's hard side, 
12* 



138 H. K. white's poems. 

A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 
The cavern yawning wide. 

And pendant from its dismal top 
The deadly nightshade hung ; 

The hemlock and the aconite 
Across the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 

And all without was calm ; 
Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 

By some deep-working charm. 

And as she enter'd the cavern wide. 
The moonbeam gleamed pale, 

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
It clung by its slimy taiL 

Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, 

She trod on a bloated toad ; 
Yet, still upheld by the secret charm. 

She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose ; 
So, on the mountain's piny top. 

The blustering north wind blows. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud 
Were heard with thundering sound, 

Till they died away in soft decay. 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 



GONDOLINE. 139 

Yet still the maiden onward went, 

The charm yet onward led, 
Though each big glaring ball of sight 

Seem'd bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw. 

It from a distance came, 
She followed, till upon her sight. 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall'd ; yet still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul ; 
Yet each bent knee the other smote, 

And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal saw before. 
And such a sight as she saw there. 

No mortal shall see more. 

A burning cauldron stood in the midst, 

The flame was fierce and high. 
And all the cave so wide and long. 

Was plainly seen thereby. 

And round about the cauldron stout 
Twelve withered witches stood : 

Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
And their hair was stifi" with blood. 

Their hands were gory too ; and red 
And fiercely flamed their eyes : 



140 H. K. white's poems. 

And they were muttering indistinct 
Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they join'd their hands, 

And uttered a joyous cry. 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopp'd; and each prepared 

To tell what she had done. 
Since last the Lady of the night 

Her waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 

Thick weeds her face did veil. 
And she lean'd fearful forwarder, 

To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose : She said she'd seen 
Rare sport since the blind cat mew'd. 

She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve. 
And a jovial storm had brew'd. 

She calPd around the winged winds. 

And rais'd a devilish rout 5 
And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were heard 

Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave, 
And there was a woman there who'd been 

To see her husband's grave. 



60ND0LINB. lil 

And she had got a child, in her arms, 

It was her only child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguil'd. 

And there was too in that same bark, 

A father and his son ; 
The lad was sickly, and the sire 

Was old and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong, 
And the bark could no more it 'bide, 

She said it was jovial fun to hear 
How the poor devils cried. 

The mother clasp 'd her orphan child 

Unto her breast, and wept ; 
And sweetly folded in her arms 

The careless baby slept. 

And she told how, in the shape o' the wind. 

As manfully it roar'd. 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 

'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 
The crew could scarcely hold her down 

From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 
And it was soft and fair : 



142 H. K. white's POEMSo 

It must have been a lovely child, 
To have had such lovely hau\ 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes they fast arose, 

His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy 
And his face grew deadly blue ; [hands, 

And his father he tore his thin gray hair, 
And kiss'd the Uvid hue. 

And then she told, how she bored a hole 

In the bark, and it filPd away : 
And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, 

And some did vow and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead. 
The sailors their strength did urge ; [sheet, 

But the billows that beat were their winding- 
And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high. 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The second begun : She said she had done 
The tasii that Queen Hecat' had set her, 

And that the devil, the father of evil, 
Had never accomplish'd a better. 



GONDOLINE. 143 

She said, there was an aged woman, 

And she had a daughter fair, 
Whose evil habits filPd her heart 

With misery and care. 

The daughter had a paramour, 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman him against 

Did murmur grievously. 

And the hag had work'd the daughter up 

To murder her old mother. 
That then she might seize on all her goods, 

And wanton with her lover. 

And one night as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed. 
And pondering sorely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led. 

She heard her footstep on the floor, 

And she raised her pallid head. 
And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 

Approaching to her bed. 

And said, My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live. 
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 

Thy sins I may forgive. 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp bright knife, 



144 H. K. white's poems. 

And the mother saw her fell intent. 
And hard she begg'd for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail. 
And she scream'd aloud with fear, 

But the house was lone, and the piercing screams 
Could reach no human ear. 

And though that she was sick, and old, 

She struggled hard, and fought ; 
The murderess cut three fingers through 

Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up, 

The skin was mangled sore, 
And they all agreed a nobler deed 

Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high. 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The third arose ; She said she'd been 

To Holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day, 

Than they had all seen in nine. 

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps. 

Drew nearer to the flame. 
For much she dreaded now to hear 

Her hapless lover's name. 



GONDOLINE. 145 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day, 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 

She said that she in human gore 

Above the knees did wade, 
And that no tongue could truly tell 

The tricks she there had play'd. 

There was a gallant-featured youth. 

Who like a hero fought ; 
He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised, 

Unto the knight she sues. 
And tells him she from Britain comes 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd, 

His love had given her hand 
Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought 

Him dead in holy land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 

When this her tale she told. 
It would have made a wizard's blood 

Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 
And sought the battle's bed : 
13 



146 H. K. white's poems. 

And soon all mangled o'er with wounds, 
He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse she tore 

His head, half clove in two, 
She ceas'd, and from beneath her garb 

The bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 

The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, 
And there was a gash across the brow, 

The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 

*Twas Bertrand's head ! ! With a terrible scream. 

The maiden gave a spring, 
And from her fearful hiding place 

She fell into the ring. 

The lights they fled — the cauldron sunk, 

Deep thunders shook the dome. 
And hollow peals of laughter came 

Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground. 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 

At intervals around. 

She woke — she half arose, — and wild. 

She cast a horrid glare. 
The sounds had ceased, the hghts had fled. 

And all was stillness there. 



GONDOLINE. 147 

And through an awning in the rock, 

The moon it sweetly shone, 
And show'd a river in the cave 

Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep, 

As it rush'd the rocks between, 
It ofFer'd well, for madness fired 

The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 

With its accustom'd sound, 
And hollow peals of laughter loud 

Again rebellow'd round. 

The maid was seen no more. — But oft 

Her ghost is known to glide. 
At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 

Along the ocean's side. 



LINES. 

WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS. 

In the Morning before Day-break. 

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 

Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

6f night's dominions ! — Planets, and central orbs 

Of other systems : — ^big as the burning sun 

Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye 

Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I raise 

My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, 

My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 

Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 

Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold. 

And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, 

Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, 

The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 

The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime. 

Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 

Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, 
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime. 
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great," 
In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
Roll o'er the air serene — The Jilolian spheres, 
Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
148 



ON A SURVEY OP THE HEAVENS. 149 

Catch the full note, and cry, " The Lord is great," 
Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all 
From orb to orb, to the remotest vet^e 
Of the created world, the sound is bori.e, 
Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, 
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile 
On the vain world, and all its bustling cares, 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height. 
What even are kings, when balanced in the scale 
Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! 
Thou, the dread author of these wondrous works ! 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst ; 
For Thou art full of universal love. 
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, 
The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 

Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime. 
How insignificant do all the joys. 
The gaudes, and honours of the world appear ! 
How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp 
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night ?— Why on the 

page. 
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I employ'd 
The hours devoted by the world to rest. 
And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 
Say can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
13* 



150 H. K. white's poems. 

The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory 
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, 
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, 
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye. 
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek ? 

Say, foolish one- — can that unbodied fame, 
For which thou barterest health and happiness, 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
A.las ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
[low fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
And oh ! assist me so to live on earth. 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling. — All but this is folly. 
The vain illusions of deceitful hfe. 



LINES, 

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT 
THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance. 

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, 
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, 
The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake, 
From thy dark house arise, and bless his sight 



THE lover's lament. 151 

On the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low 
Pom' on the silver ear of night thy tale, 
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, 
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul. 
And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, as thou 

didst, 
When o'er the barren moors the night wind howl'd, 
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne 
Of the startled night. — ! then, as lone reclining, 
I listen d sadly to the dismal storm. 
Thou on the lambent lightnings wild careering 
Didst strike my m.oody eye ; — dead pale thou wert, 
Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me, 
And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical, 
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, 
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave. 
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, 
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, 
Lock'd m the arms of silence. 

Spirit of her ! 
My only love ! — ! now again arise. 
And let once more thine aery accents fall 
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, 
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence 
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely 

swelling 
On the still air, the distant waterfall 
Mingles its melody ; — and, high above, 
The pensive empress of the solemn night. 
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, 
Shows her chaste face in the meredian sky. 
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoll 



153 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Dare now assemble at their mystic revels ; 
It is a night, when from their primrose beds, 
The gentle ghosts of injm'ed innocents 
Are known to rise, and wander on the breeze, 
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, 
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul. 
The spirit of my love might now awake. 
And hold its custom'd converse. 

Mary, lo ! 
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave. 
And calls upon thy name. — The breeze that blows 
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him 
In solemn music, a funereal dirge, 
Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale. 
The worm that play'd upon thy youthful bloom, 
It canker'd green on his. — Now lost he stands. 
The ghost of Avhat he was, and the cold dew 
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure omen 
Of speedy dissolution. — Mary, soon 
Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine. 
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 



MY STUDY. 

A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse. 

You bid me, Ned describe the place 
Where I, one of the rhyming race. 
Pursue my studies con amove, 
And wanton with the muse in glory. 



MY STUDY. 153 

Well, figure to your senses straight, 

Upon the house's topmost height, 

A closet, just six feet by four, 

With -white-wash'd walls and plaster floor, 

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 

To admit a single chair and table : 

And (lest the muse should die with cold) 

A smoky grate my fire to hold : 

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 

To melt the ice-drop on one's nose , 

And yet so big, it covers o'er 

Full half the spacious room and more. 

A window vainly stuff^'d about. 
To keep November's breezes out. 
So crazy, that the panes proclaim, 
That soon they mean to leave the frame. 

My furniture I sure may crack — ■ 

A broken chair without a back ; 

A table wanting just two legs. 

One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ; 

A desk — of that I am not fervent. 

The work of. Sir, your humble servant ; 

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler;) 

A glass decanter and a tumbler. 

From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, 

Luxurious, with the limpid wave. 

A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 

And saw'd by me in all directions ; 

So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em 

S wears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 



154 fl. K. white's poems. 

To these, if you will add a store 

Of oddities upon the floor, 

A pair of globes, electric balls. 

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves : 

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 

You'll have my earthly catalogue. 

But stay, — I nearly had left out 

My bellows destitute of snout ; 

And on the walls, — Good Heavens ! why there 

I've such a load of precious ware, 

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, 

And organ works, and broken pedals ; 

(For I was once a-building music. 

Though soon of that employ I grew sickj) 

And skeletons of laws which shoot 

All out of one primordial root; 

That you, at such a sight, would swear 

Confusion's self had settled there. 

There stands, just by a broken sphere, 

A Cicero without an ear, 

A neck, on which, by logic good, 

I know for sure a head once stood; 

But who it was the able master 

Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 

Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 

I never yet could justly learn: 

But knowing well, that any head 

Is made to answer for the dead, 

(And sculptors first their faces frame, 

And after pitch upon a name. 



Mr STUDY. 155 

Nor think it aught a misnomer 

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, [Imow, 

Because they both have beards, which, you 

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) 

For some great man, I could not tell 

But Neck might answer just as well. 

So perch'd it up, all in a row 

With Chatham and with Cicero. 

Then all around in just degree, 
A range of portraits you may see, 
Of mighty men and eke of women, 
Who are no whit inferior to men. 

With these fair dames, and heroes round, 

I call my garret classic ground. 

For though confined, 'twill well contain 

The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 

No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, 

Can cramp the energies of mind! 

Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 

I've friends, and 'twill contain them all; 

And should it e'er become so cold 

That these it will no longer hold. 

No more may Heaven her blessings give, 

I shall not then be fit to live. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 



Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine. 

Was nursed in whirling storms. 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's 

sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone. 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head. 

Obscure and unobserved; 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, 

Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 
156 



SONNETS. 



SONNET I. 

To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness. 

Once more, Trent ! along thy pebbly marge 

A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, 
From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale. 
! to his ear how musical the tale 

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat ! 
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, 

How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
It was on this that many a sleepless night. 

As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, 
And at his casement heard, with wild aflright, 
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream, 
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire, 
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland 
choir. 



SONNET II. 

/ 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, 

And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled. 
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
14 157 



158 H. K. white's poems. 

While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise. 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

I shall not want the world's delusive joys; 
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre. 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; 
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore. 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave, 



SONNET III.* 



Supposed to have beien addressed by a female lunatic to 
a Lady. 



Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo, 

And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art young ; 
Oh ! may thy bosom never, never know [wrung. 

The pangs with which my wretched heart is 
I had a mother once — a brother too — 

(Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) 
I had a lover once, — and kind, and true. 

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled ! 
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely eye ? 

Oh ! gentle lady — not for me thus weep. 
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie. 

And soft and sound will be my peaceful sleep. 

5^ This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnnet, 
"occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written 
by Mrs. Lofil, and published in the Monthly Mirror. 



SONNETS. 159 

Go thou and pluck the roses while they bloom — 
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 



SONNET IV. 

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in 
a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's Service. 

Lo ! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 
Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping shrouds. 

While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined 
Lists to the changeful storm : and as he plies 
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad, 
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, 
And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 
I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn. 

View the drear tempest, and the yawning deep, 
Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to sleep. 
For not for me shall wife or children mourn. 
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell 
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 



SONNET V. 

THE WINTER TRAVELLER. 

God help thee. Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'erlays 
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow ways. 

And darkness will involve thee. — No kind star 



160 H. K. white's poems. 

To-night will guide thee, Traveller, — and the war 
Of winds and elements on thy head will break, 
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek 

Of spirits howling on their stormy car. 

Will often ring appalling — I portend 

A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed 
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my head. 

And him who rides where winds and waves con- 
tend. 

And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to guide 

His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 



SONNET VI. . 

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

This Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, 
and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, mis- 
nomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly 
Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much 
respected writer, for the permission so politely granted 
to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been 
pleased to express of his productions. 

Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, 
" Severest of those orders which belong, 
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," 

Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? 

And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days. 
Assume, its rules disown'd? whom from the 
throng 

The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys 
Of its full harmony : — they fear to wrong 



SONNETS. 161 

The Sonnet, by adorning with a name 

Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though sweet, 
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet 
Of that so varied and peculiar frame. 
think ! to vindicate its genuine praise 

Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring im- 
pulse sways 



SONNET VII. 
Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition. 

Let the subhmer muse, who, wrapt in night, 
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, 
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, 
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight, 
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, 
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form, 
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform 
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. 
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train. 

Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest 

shade [aid 

With wildest song; — Me, much behoves thy 

Of mingled melody, to grace my strain. 

And give it power to please, as soft it flows 

Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent close. 



14* 



162 H. K. white's poems. 

SONNET VIII. 
On hearing the Sounds of an Eolian Harp. 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
Of the infuriate gust, it did career, 
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, 
And sunk him to a zephyr ; — ^then it died. 
Melting in melody ; — and I descried, 

Borne to some wizard stream, the form appear 
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear 
Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge replied : 
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, 
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds. 
By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds 
Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath. 
Keeping his night-watch sad portending death .'' 



SONNET IX. 

What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy 
seat? 

Thou broodest on the calm that chf ^ ^rs the lands, 

And thou dost bear within thine awful hands 
The rolling thunders and the hghtnings fleet, 
Stern on thy dark- wrought car of cloud and wind. 

Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead 
noon. 

Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
Disturb 'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 



A BALLAD. 163 

In the drear silence of the polar span 
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 

Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, 

Who glows through all the fields of boundless 
space. 



A BALLAD. 

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds. 

Ye pelting rains a little rest : 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh ! cruel was my faithless love, 
To triumph o'er an artless maid ; 

Oh ! cruel was my faithless love. 

To leave the breast by him betray'd. 

When exiled from my native home. 
He should have wiped the bitter tear; 

Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, 
The winds they will not let it sleep : 

Ah, little knows the hapless babe 

What makes its wretched mother weep ! 



164 H. K. white's poems. 

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 
I cannot bear thy sobs to see. 

Harsh is thy father, little one, 
And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave. 

And winds were piping o'er me loud. 
And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 

Were nestling in thy mother's shroud ! 



THE LULLABY. 

OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE 
NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. 

Sleep, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my bosom. 
Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding breast 

Sleep, baby mine, not long thou'lt have a mother 
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complaining, 
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers fled, 

Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly waning. 
And I would fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch ! and who will heed thy 
weeping. 
When soon an outcast on the world thou'lt be : 

* Sir Phillip Sidney has a poem beginning, " Sleep, Baby 
mine." 



THE LULLABY. '165 

Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's 
sleeping 
In her low grave of shame and infamy ! 

Sleep, baby mine — To-morrow I must leave thee. 
And I would snatch an interval of rest : 

Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave 
thee, 
For never more thou'lt press a mother's breast. 



POEMS 
OF A LATER DATE. 



167 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. 

On seeing Engravings from his Designs. 

Mighty magician ! who on Torneo's brow, 
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, 
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, 

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below ; 

And listen to the distant death-shriek long 
From lonely mariner foundering in the deep. 
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, 

While the weird sisters' weave the horrid song;. 
Or when along the liquid sky 
Serenely chant the orbs on high. 
Dost love to sit in musing trance. 
And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
(While far below the fitful oar 
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
And list the music of the breeze. 
That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
And often bears with sudden swell 
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell. 
By the spirits sung, who keep 
Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, 
And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye 
To Helice in northern sky : 
And there upon the rock inclined 
With mighty visions fill'st the mind, 

15 169 



170 H. K. white's poems. 

Such as bound in magic spell 
Him* who grasp 'd the gates of Hell, 
And bursting Pluto's dark domain, 
Held to the day the terrors of his reign. 

Genius of Horror and romantic awe. 

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, 

Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
Who shall now, sublimest spirit. 
Who shall now thy wand inherit. 
From himt thy darling child who best 
Thy shuddering images express'd ? 
Sullen of soul, and stern and proud, 
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd. 
And now he lays his aching head 

In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 

Mighty magician ! long thy wand has lain 
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
And oh ! for ever must its efforts sleep. 

May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ! 
Oh yes, 'tis his! — Thy other son ; 
He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, 
Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise. 
Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd 
eyes. 

Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 

Where round his head the volley'd lightnings 

flung, 
And the loud winds that round his pillow rung, 

Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep. 

*DanteL flbid. 



ODES. 171 

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe 
Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look 

Where far below the weather-beaten skiff 
On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 
Thou mark'dst him drink with rutliless ear 

The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, 
Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast. 
And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear. 
Then, Superstition, at thy call. 
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 
And set before his awe-struck sight 
The savage feast and spectred fight ; 
And summon'd from his mountain tomb 
The ghastly warrior son of gloom, 
His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, 
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing; 
Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, 
Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 
Which on the mists of evening gleam, 
Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 
Lastly her storied hand she waves, 
And lays him in Florentian caves ; 
There milder fables, lovelier themes. 
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, 
There Pity's lute arrests his ear. 
And draws the half-reluctant tear ; 
And now at noon of night he roves 
Along the embowering moonlight groves, 
And as from many a cavern'd dell 
The hollow wind is heard to swell. 
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs ; 
And as upon the turf he lies. 



172 H. K. white's poems. 

Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 
He sees below the gliding sprite, 
And hears in Fancy's organs sound 
Aerial music warbling round. 

Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole, 
And breathes her polish o'er his soul ; 
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat. 
The wondrous work is now complete. 

The Poet dreams : — The shadow flies. 

And fainting fast its image dies. 

But lo ! the Painter's magic force 

Arrests the phantom's fleeting course ; 

It lives — it lives — the canvass glows. 

And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. 
The Bard beholds the work achieved, 

And as he sees the shadow rise. 

Sublime before his wondering eyes. 
Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO THE EAKL OP CARLISLE, K. O. 

Retired, remote from human noise, 

A humble Poet dwelt serene ; 
His lot was lowly, yet his jo^^-s 

Were manifold, I ween. 
He laid him by the brawling brook 

At eventide to ruminate, 



ODES. 173 

He watch'd the swallow skimming round, 
And mused, in reverie profound, 

On wayward man's unhappy state, 

And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of 
ancient date. 

II. 1. 

" Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, 

" There was a time, when Genius claimed 
Respect from even towering Pride, 

Nor hung her head ashamed : 
But now to Wealth alone we bow, 

The titled and the rich alone 
Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines, 
On Penury's wretched couch reclines. 
Unheeded in his dying moan. 
As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks 
unknown. 

III. 1. 

" Yet was the muse not always seen 
In Poverty's dejected mien, 
Not always did repining rue. 
And misery her steps pursue. 
Time was, when nobles thought their titles graced, 
By the sweet honours of poetic bays, 
When Sidney sung his melting song, 
When Sheffield joined the harmonious throng. 
And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. 
Those days are gone — alas, for ever gone ! 
No more our nobles love to grace 
15* 



174 H. K. white's poems. 

Their brows with anadems, by genius won, 
But arrogantly" deem the muse as base ; 
How different thought the sires of this degenerate 
race !" 

1.2. 

Thus sang the minstrel :— still at eve 
The upland's woody shades among 
In broken measures did he grieve, 
With solitary song. 
And still his shame was aye the same, 
Neglect had stung him to the core ; 
And he with pensive joy did love 
To seek the still congenial grove. 
And muse on all his sorrows o'er. 
And vow that he would join the abjured world no 
more. 

II. 2. 

But human vows, how frail they be ! 

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, 
And all amazed, he thought to see 
The Augustan age anew. 
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, 
No more he ponders on the woes. 
Which erst he felt that forward goes, 
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, 
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 

III. 2. 

Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore, 
With ills which in the world he bore, . 



ODES. 175 

Again on futile hope to rest, 
An unsubstantial prop at best, 
And not to know one swallow makes no summer! 
Ah ! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, 
Which flash'd across the hemisphere, 
Illumining the darkness there. 

Was but a single solitary beam. 
While all around remain'd in custom'd night. 

Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene. 
In the false court's delusive height. 
And only one Carlisle is seen. 
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and steady 
light. 



DESCRIPTIOxN OF A SUMMER'S 
EVE. 

Down the sultry arc of day 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And eve along the western skies 

Spreads her intermingling dyes. 

Down the deep, the miry lane, 

Creeking comes the empty wain, 

And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft with his accustom'd call. 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, the master's gone, 

And thresher puts his jacket on. 



176 H. K. white's poems. 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 
Nails the dead kite to the wall. 
Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 
He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast, 
For 'twas but two nights before, 
A lamb was eaten on the moor : 
His empty wallet Rover carries, 
Now for Jack, when near home, tarries. 
With lolling tongue he runs to try, 
If the horse-trough be not dry. 
The milk is settled in the pans. 
And supper messes in the cans ; 
In the hovel carts are wheePd, 
And both the colts are drove a-field ; 
The horses are all bedded up. 
And the ewe is with the tup. 
The snare for Mister Fox is set. 
The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 
And Bess has slink'd away to talk 
With Roger in the holly-walk. 

Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom and roguish Kate, 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things, 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
Or else tell all the village news, 
How madam did the squire refuse ; 
How parson on his tithes was bent. 
And landlord oft distrained for rent. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 177. 

Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
Had reel'd — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
The heaping coal on kitchen grate 
Has laid — while master goes throughout. 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 
The candles safe, the hearths all clear. 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; 
Then both to bed together creep. 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Come, pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
In some retired Lapponian cell, 
Where, far from noise and riot rude. 
Resides sequester'd Solitude. 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 
Throw thy dark and russet stole. 
And open to ray duteous eyes. 
The volume of thy mysteries. 

I will meet thee on the hill. 
Where, with printless footsteps still 
The morning in her buskin gray, 
Springs upon her eastern way ; 
While the frolic zephyrs stir. 
Playing with the gossamer. 



178 H. E. white's poems. 

And, on ruder pinions borne, 

Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 

There, as o'er the fields we pass, 

Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 

We will startle from her nest 

The lively lark with speckled breast. 

And hear the floating clouds among 

Her gale-transported matin song. 

Or on the upland stile embower'd. 

With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd. 

Will sauntering sit, and listen still 

To the herdsman's oaten quill, 

Wafted from the plain below ; 

Or the heifer's frequent low ; 

Or the milkmaid in the grove. 

Singing of one that died for love. 

Or when the noontide heats oppress, 

We will seek the dark recess. 

Where, in th' empower'd translucent stream. 

The cattle shun the sultry beam. 

And o'er us on the marge reclined. 

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, 

While Echo, from her ancient oak, 

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 

Or the little peasant's song, 

Wandering lone the glens among, 

His artless lip with berries dyed. 

And feet through ragged shoes descried. 

But oh ! when evening's virgin queen 
Sits on her fringed throne serene, 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 179 

And mingling whispers rising near, 
Still on the still reposing ear : 
While distant brooks decaying round, 
Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, 
And the zephyr flitting by, 
Whispers mystic harmony, 
We will seek the woody lane. 
By the hamlet, on the plain, 
Where the weary rustic nigh, 
Shall whistle his wild melody, 
And the creaking wicket oft 
Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ; 
And as we trace the green path lone. 
With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 
We will muse on pensive lore 
Till the full soul brimming o'er, 
Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, 
Embodied in a quivering tear. 
Or else, serenely silent, set 
By the brawling rivulet, 
Which on its calm unruffled breast, 
Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, 
That clasps its secret stream of glass 
Half hid in shrubs and waving grass. 
The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 
Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, 
We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, 
The rich vermilion slowly fade ; 
Or catch, faint twinkling from afar. 
The first glimpse of the eastern star, 
Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light. 
That heralds in imperial night ; 



180 H. K. white's poems. 

Meanwhile, upon our -wandering ear, 
Shall rise, though low, yet sweetly clear, 
The distant sounds of pastoral lute. 
Invoking soft the sober suit 
Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 
With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 
(So erst did music's silver tone 
Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 
And haply then, with sudden swell. 
Shall roar the distant curfew bell, 
While in the castle's mouldering tower. 
The hooting owl is heard to pour 
Her melancholy song, and scare 
Dull Silence brooding in the air. 
Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car, 
Black-suited Night drives on from far. 
And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear. 
Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 
And summons to her silent call. 
Sweeping, in their airy pall. 
The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, 
To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 
While around the mystic ring 
The shadowy shapes elastic spring. 
Then with a passing shriek they fly. 
Wrapt in mists, along the sky. 
And oft are by the shepherd seen. 
In his lone night-watch on the green. 

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 
To the low abbey's still retreat. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 181 

Embower'd in the distant glen, 
Far from the haunts of busy men, 
Where, as we sit upon the tomb. 
The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 
And show to Fancy's saddest eye. 
Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 
And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 
With ivy fill'd and weeping larch. 
The night-gale whispers sadly clear. 
Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear. 
We'll hold communion with the shade 
Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid — 
Or call the ghost of Spenser down. 
To tell of wo and Fortune's frown ; 
And bid us cast the eye of hope 
Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 
Or if these joys, to us denied, 
To linger by the forest's side ; 
Or in the meadow, or the wood. 
Or by the lone, romantic flood ; 
Let us in the busy town. 
When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 
Far from drowsy pillows flee. 
And turn the church's massy key ; 
Then, as through the painted glass 
The moon's faint beams obscurely pass ; 
And darkly on the trophied wall. 
Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall ; 
Let us, while the faint winds wail, 
Through the long reluctant aisle, 
As we pace with reverence meet, 
Count the echoings of our feet ; 
16 



182 H K. white's poems. 

While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, 

Thus on my footsteps to attend. 

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn 

By fallen Genius' sainted urn 

As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, 

And sagely spell of ancient lore, 

Till I can rightly guess of all 

That Plato could to memory call. 

And scan the formless views of things. 

Or with old Egypt's fetter'd kings. 

Arrange the mystic trains that shine 

In night's high philosophic mine ; 

And to thy name shall e'er belong 

The honours of undying song. 



ODE 

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh ! thou who, in my early youth. 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Were wont to win my infant feet. 
To some retired, deep-fabled seat. 
Where, by the brooklet's secret tide. 
The midnight ghost was known to glide ; 
Or lay me in some lonely glade. 
In native Sherwood's forest shade, 



THE Savoyard's return. 183 

Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 

Was wont his sylvan courts to hold ; 

And there, as musing deep I lay, 

Would steal my little soul away, 

And all thy pictures represent, 

Of siege and solemn tournament ; 

Or bear me to the magic scene. 

Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine, 

The warrior knight of chivalry 

Made many a fierce enchanter flee ; 

And bore the high-born dame away. 

Long held the fell magician's prey ; 

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 

Of murders, and of goblins pale, 

Haunting the guilty baron's side, 

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) 

Which o'er the vaulted corridore. 

On stormy nights was heard to roar. 

By old domestic, waken'd wide 

By the angry winds that chide ; 

Or else the mystic tale would tell, 

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 



THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 

1. 

Oh ! yonder is the well-known spot, 
My dear, my long-lost native home ! 

Oh ! welcome is yon little cot. 
Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! 



184 H. K. white's poems. 

Oh ! I have travelled far and wide, 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



11. 

Of distant climes the false report 
It lured me from my native land ; 
It bade me rove — ^my sole support 
My cymbals and my saraband. 

The woody dell, the hanging rock. 

The chamois skipping o'er the heights ; 

The plain adorn'd with many a flock. 
And, oh ! a thousand more delights. 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward won my weary feet 

III. 

Now safe return'd, with vtrandering tired, 

No more my little home I'll leave ; 
And many a tale of what I've seen 

Shall while away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wander'd far and wide. 

O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband ; 
But all their charms could not prevail. 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



UNFORTUNATE GENIUS. 185 



LINES 

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in 
Mr. Capel Ijoffl's beautiful and interesting Preface to 
Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published. — " It has 
a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression 
of its melancholy close. I could have wished as I have 
said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. 
The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets de- 
light it." 

Go to the raging sea, and say, "Be still !" 
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, 
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. 

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, 
And every year with new delight hast told, 
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge. 
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant 

marge, 
l^hou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea, 
The storms of misery never burst on thee. 

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines. 
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; 
Abide with him whom Penury's charms control, 
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul. 
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, 
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair ! 
16* 



186 H. K. white's poems. 

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, 
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled ; 
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye. 
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn sigh, 
His muttering mouth contorted with despair. 
And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 

Oh, yes ! that sunken eye with fire once gleam'd, 
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd ; 
But now Neglect has stung him to the core, 
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no more ; 
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round. 
And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
Lo ! o'er his manly form, decay 'd and wan. 
The shades of death with gradual steps steal on 5 
And the pale mother, pining to decay, 
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 

Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave. 
Where o'er his head obscure the rank weeds wave ; 
Behold the heart- wrung parent lay her head 
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair ! 

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd 

forth, 
T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; 
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 
'Tis just that every blessing should descend j 
'Tis just that life to thee should only show 
Her fairest side but little mix'd with wo. 



DEATH. 187 



WRITTEN 
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 

Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 

Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 

And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 

In dim obscurity before him, — thee. 

Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 

At this still midnight hour, this awful season, 

When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 

I turn me wearisome; while all around, 

All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness ; 

I only wake to watch the sickly taper 

Which lights me to my tomb. — Yea 'tis the hand 

Of death I feel press heavy on my vitals, 

Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 

My moments now are few — the sand of life 

Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little, 

And the last fleeting particle will fall, 

Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 

Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate 

While meditate we may. — We have now 

But a small portion of what men call time 

To hold communion ; for even now the knife. 

The separating knife, I feel divide 

The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 

Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 

And though to me has life been dark and dreary, 

Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, 



188 H. K. white's poems. 

And Disappointment still pursued her blandish- 
ments, 
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, 
The shuddering void, the awful blank — futurity. 
Ay, I had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme 
Of earthly happiness-^romantic schemes. 
And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps. 
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding hopes. 
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry ? 
Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings 
Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
Will hold him in remembrance. I shall sink. 
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
Of busy London : — Some short bustle's caused, 
A few enquiries, and the crowds close in. 
And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave 
The men of future times will careless tread, 
And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears. 
Recall my vanish'd memory. — I did hope 
For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave 
The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 
It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires ! 
No more of hope ! the wanton vagrant Hope ! 
I abjure all. — Now other cares engross me. 
And my tired soul, with emulative haste. 
Looks to its God, and prunes its wings for Heaven. 



PASTORAL SONG. 189 



PASTORAL SONG. 

Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge the skies : 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
And watch the early lark arise ; 
While Nature, clad in vesture gay, 
Hails the loved return of day. 

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade 

Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 
And then, secure beneath the shade, 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale ; 
And watch the silver clouds above, 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come Anna ! come, and bring thy lute, 

That with its tones, so softly sweet, 
In cadence with my mellow flute. 
We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
While near the mellow bee shall join, 
To raise a harmony divine, 

And then at eve, when silence reigns. 

Except when heard the beetle's hum, 
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains. 

To these sweet heights again we'll come ; 
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
A solemn vesper to departing day. 



190 H. K. white's poems. 

VERSES. 

When pride and envy, and the scorn 

Of wealth, my heart with gall embued, 
1 thought how pleasant were the morn 

Of silence, in the solitude ; 
To hear the forest bee on wing. 
Or by the stream, or woodland spring. 
To he and muse alone — alone. 
While the tinkling waters moan. 
Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 
Man and noise are far away. 

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow 

To fill life's dusty way ; 
And who will miss a poet's feet, 

Or wonder where he stray : 
So to the woods and waste I'll go. 

And I will build an osier bower ; 
And sweetly there to me shall flow 

The meditative hour. 

And when the Autumn's withering hand 
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 
I'll to the forest caverns hie : 
And in the dark and stormy nights 
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites. 
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods. 
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ; 
Or, as it drifted soft and slow. 
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 



TO MIDNIGHT. 191 



EPIGRAM 

ON 

ROBERT BLOOxMFIELD. 

Bloomfield, thy happy-omen'd name 
Ensures continuance to thy fame ; 
Both sense and truth this verdict give, 
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live ! 



ODE TO MIDNIGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn still, 
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, 

But speaks to philosophic souls delight, 
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, 
My candle waning melancholy by, 

I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, 
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales. 

Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, 
To her, while all around in sleep recline. 
Wakeful I raise my orisons divine. 

And sing the gentle honours of her name ; 



192 H. K. white's poems. 

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, 

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, 
And Superstition's gentle terrors come. 
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom ! 

See round yon church-yard elm what spectres 
throng ! 

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay. 
My flagelet — and, as I pensive play. 

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene ; 
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors 
Hears them aghast, — (while still the dull owl pours 

Her hollow screams each dreary pause between,) 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light 
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, 

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, 
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, 
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene. 

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. 



ODE TO THOUGHT. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 



I. 

Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 

Thy pictures are of pain ; 
The visions through thy dark eye caught. 
They with no gentle charms are fraught, 



TO THOUGHT. 193 

So pr'ythee back again. 
I would not weep, 
I wish to sleep, 
Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep ? 

II. 

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 

Is this thy new delight ? 
Pale visitant, it is not thine 
To keep thy sentry through the mine, 
The dark vault of the night : 
'Tis thine to die. 
While o'er the eye 
The dews of slumber press, and waking sorrows 
fly. 

III. 

Go thou, and bide with him who guides 

His bark through lonely seas ; 
And as reclining on his helm. 
Sadly he marks the starry realm. 
To him thou may'st bring ease ; 
But thou to me 
Art misery, 
So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and from 
my pillow flee. 

IV. 

And, Memory, pray what art thou ? 

Art thou of pleasure born ? 
Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 
17 



194 H. K. white's poems. 

Is it without a thorn ? 
With all thy smiles, 
And witching wiles, 
Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway 
defiles. 

V. 

The drowsy night-watch has forgot 

To call the solemn hour ; 
Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep. 
While I in vain, capricious Sleep, 
Invoke thy tardy power ; 
And restless lie. 
With unclosed eye. 
And count the tedious hours as slow they minute 
by. 



GENIUS. 

AN ODE. 

I. 1. 

Many there be, who, through the vale of life, 

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go. 
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife 
Awakes them not to wo. 
By them unheeded, carking Care, 
Green-eyed Grief and dull Despair ; 



GENIUS. 195 

Smoothly they pursue their way, 

With even tenor and with equal breath, 

Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, 
Then sink in peace to death. 

II. 1. 

But, ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour 

And weeping Wo, and Disappointment keen, 
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour, 

And self-consuming Spleen. 
And these are Genius' favourites : these 
Know the thought-throned mind to please. 
And from her fleshy seat to draw 

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits roll, 
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law, 

The captivated soul. 

III. 1. 

Genius, from thy starry throne. 

High above the burning zone, 
In radiant robe of light array'd. 
Oh ! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made. 

His melancholy moan. 
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows. 

Of sleepless nights of anguish-ridden days. 
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 

To curse his being and his thirst for praise. 
Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel 

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's 
scorn ; 
And what o'er all does in his soul preside 
Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
His high indignant pride. 



196 H. K. white's poems. 

1.2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 

That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 
For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife 
Distract his hapless head ! 
For him awaits no balmy sleep. 
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 
Or by his lonely lamp he sits 

At solemn midnight when the peasant sleeps. 
In feverish study, and in moody fits 
His mournful vigils keeps. 

H. 2. 

And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 
For what does thus he waste life's fleeting 
breath ? 
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
'Tis for untimely death. 
Lo ! where dejected pale he lies, 
Despair depicted in his eyes. 
He feels the vital flame decrease. 

He sees the grave wide-yawning for its prey, 
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, 
And cheer the expiring ray. 

HI. 2. 

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame. 
By gentle Otway's magic name, 
By him, the youth, who smiled at death, 
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath. 



GENIUS. 197 

Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 

And far-resounding Fame. 
What though to thee the dazzled millions bow, 
And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 
Though unto thee the monarch looks with awe, 
And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations draw. 
Yet, ah ! unseen behind thee fly 

Corroding Anguish, soul-subduing Pain, 
And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 
A melancholy train. 
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await. 
Mocking thy derided state ; 
Thee chill Adversity will still attend. 
Before whose face flies fast the summer's friend, 

And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and 
laughs. 
And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides. 
And while the cup of aflluence he quaffs 
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides. 
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave. 
To gain the meed of praise, when he is moulder- 
ing in his grave. 



17 



198 H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO THE 
MOON. 

I. 

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of night, 

A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild. 
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light. 

Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts be- 
guiled. 
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
Nocturnal Study's still retreat, 
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, 
And through my lofty casement weaves. 
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves. 
An intermingled beam. 

II. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame : 
These the dread signs of many a secret pang. 

These are the meed of him who pants for fame ! 
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert my 
soul; 

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
My lamp expires ; — beneath thy mild control. 

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast 
Soothe these discordant tones to rest. 



TO THE MOON. 199 

And breathe the soul of peace ; 
Mild visitor, I feel thee here, 
It is not pain that brings this tear. 

For thou hast bid it cease. 

Oh ! many a year has pass'd away 
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray 
Attun'd my infant reed. 
When wilt thou. Time, those days restore, 
Those happy moments now no more — 



When on the lake's damp marge I lay. 

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, 
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there 
To inspirate my trance. 

Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
Your magic sweets on me to shed, 
In vain your powers are now essay'd 
To chase superior pain. 

And art thou fled, thou Avelcome orb ? 

So swiftly pleasure flies ; 
So to mankind, in darkness lost. 

The beam of ardour dies. 
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done. 
And now, encurtain'd in the main. 

Thou sinkest into rest ; 
But I, in vain, on thorny bed 

Shall woo the god of soft repose — 



200 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 



FRAGMENT. 

Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry cloud 
O'er the cold north star casts her flitting shroud ; 
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, 
Starts as she hears^ by fits, the shrieking gale ; > 
Where now, shut out from every still retreat, 
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood. 
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance 
The drifted fleeces that around him dance, 
And hurries on his half-averted form. 
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. 
Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of thatch,] 
Soon shall his 'numb'd hand tremble on the latch, 
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame 
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame ; 
Round the light fire, while roars the north wind 

loud, 
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
These hail his coming — these his meal prepare. 
And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 

What, though the social circle be denied, , 

Even Sadness brightens at her own fire-side. 
Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze, 
While musing Memory dwells on former days ; 
Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles — and still forgiven. 
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven. 



PKAGMENT. 201 

Then heap the fire — shut out the biting air, 
And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet 
To hear without the bitter tempest beat 
All, ail alone — to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
The pensive tenant of obscurity. 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh ! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, 

Consumption ! silent cheater of the eye ; 
Thou com'st not robed in agonizing pain, 

Nor mark'st thy course with Death's de'usive 
dye. 

But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie ; 
O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse. 

And, while thou giv'st new lustre to the eye, 
While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy 

hues. 
Even then life's little rest thy cruel power subdues. 

Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth 

Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there 
bloom'd. 

And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth 
I knew would never stay, till all consumed, 
In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. 

But oh ! what sorrow did I feel, as swift. 
Insidious ravager, I saw thee fly 



203 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow. 
Preparing swift her passage to the sky. 

Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, 
The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye ; 

Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, 

And soon she calmly sunk in death's repugnant 
trance. 

I 

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near 
And dissolution hover'd o'er her head : 

Even then so beauteous did her form appear 
That none who saw her but admiring said. 
Sure so much beauty never could be dead. 

Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye. 

Bent lowly down upon the languid 



SONNETS. 



TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

LoFFT, unto thee one tributary song 

The simple Muse, admiring, fain would bring ; 
She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, 

And with thy name to bid the woodlands ring. 



SONNETS. 203 

Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, 
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, 
Would say how thou didst foster kindred worth. 
And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortune's child ; 
Firm she would paint thee, with becoming zeal, 

Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, 
I Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep the 

lyre. 
And show thy labours for the public weal. 
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme. 
But ah ! she shrinks abash'd before the arduous 
theme. ^ 



TO THE MOON. 

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER, 

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
Of the horizon dim, thee. Moon, I hail. 
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove the gale 

Seems to repeat the year's funeral dirge. 

Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, 
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely way, 

Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, 
With double joy my homage do I pay. 
When clouds disguise the glories of the day, 

And stern November sheds her boisterous blight. 
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal height, 
And, still unchanged, back to the memory bring 
The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 



204 H. K. white's poems. 

LINES 

WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OP A ERIEND. 

Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, 

And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, 
Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie. 

And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive lay. 
Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I woo'd 

The maid of musings by yon moaning wave, 
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now re- 
new'd. 

Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! 
The busy world pursues its boisterous way 

The noise of revelry still echoes round. 
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay ; 

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
Oh ! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow cease, 
And 'neath the green-sward sleep the sleep of peace. 



TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, I am young, my chin is bare, [told, 
And I have wonder'd much when men have 

How youth was free from sorrow and from care. 
That thou shouldst dwell with me and leave the 
old. 



SONNETS. 205 

Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivell'd hag of hate, 
My phizj and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 
I am not either, Beldam, over strong ; 
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. 
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate, 
I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 
And, lest thou should'st resume the wild-goose 

chase, 
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 
— ^Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 



As thus oppress'd with many a heavy care, 
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet 
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet 
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 
Fills my sad breast ; and, tired with this vain 
coil, 
I shrink dismay'd before life's upland toil. 
And as amid the leaves the evening air 
Whispers still melody, — I think ere long, 

When I no more can hear, these woods will 
speak ; 
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 
And mournful phantasies upon me throng. 
And I do ponder with most strange delight. 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 



18 



206 H. K. white's poems. 



TO APRIL. 



Emblem of life ! see changeful April sail 
In varying vest along the shadowy skies, 
Now bidding Summer's softest zephyrs rise, 
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale. 
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 
Then, smiling through the tear that dims her 

eyes. 
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes. 
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. 
So, to us, sojourners in Life's low vale. 
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive. 
While still the Fates the web of Misery weave ; 
So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail. 
And from the present gloom the soul conveys 
To distant summers and far happier days. 



Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies. 
At even rising slow, yet sweetly clear. 
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, 

As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies. 
When he who now invokes you low is laid, 

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed, 

Hold ye your nightly visions o'er his head, 
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade ! 

For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 



SONNETS. 207 

And often by the haunted stream that laves 
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost caves, 
Would sit and listen to the dying falls, 
Till the full tear would quiver in his eye. 
And his big heart would heave with mournful 
ecstacy. 



TO A TAPER. 

'Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits, 

And all is silence — in the hour of sleep ; 
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, 

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
I wake alone to listen and to weep, 

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn ; 
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep. 

To think of days that never can return. 
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head. 

My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; 
And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with dread, 

Tells thou dost light me to the silent tomb. 
Like thee I wane ; — like thine my life's last ray 
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 



TO MY MOTHER, 

And canst thou. Mother, for a moment think. 
That we, thy children, when old age shall shed 
Its blanching honours on thy weary head, 



208 H. K. white's poems. 

Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? 
Sooner the sun from his high sphere should sink 

Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, 

To pine in solitude thy life away, 
Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. 
Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may roam, 

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree, 

Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee, 
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage. 
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 



Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This sickly dream 

Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 

From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before, — 

Yon landscape smile, — ^yon golden harvest 
grow, — 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress. 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave ; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless. 

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just — Thou gavest the bitter cup ; 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



SONNETS. S09 



TO CONSUMPTION. 



Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
Consmnption, lay thine hand ! — let me decay, 

i Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true, what holy men have said. 
That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 

let the aerial music round my bed. 

Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear : 

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by 
Ere I depart upon my journey drear : 

And, smiling faintly on the painful past. 

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 



TRANSLATED 

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 

Thy judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lov'st to wear 

The face of pity and of love divine ; 
But mine is guilt — thou must not, canst not spare, 

While Heaven is true, and equity is thine. 
Yes, oh my God ! — such crimes as mine, so dread. 

Leave but the choice of punishment to thee ; 
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, 

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me ! 
18 * 



210 H. K. white's poems. 

Thy will be done — since 'tis thy glory's due, 
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow j 

Smite — it is time — though endless death ensue, 
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. 

But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, 

That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning 
blood.? 



HYMN. 

The Lord our God is clothed with might, 

The winds obey his will ; 
He speaks, and in his heavenly height, 

The rolling sun stands still. 

Rebel, ye waves — and o'er the land 

With threatening aspect roar ! 
The Lord uplifts his awful hand. 

And chains you to the shore. 

Howl, winds of night ! your force combine ! 

Without his high behest, 
Ye shall not, in the mountain pine, 

Disturb the sparrow's nest. 

His voice sublime is heard afar. 

In distant peals it dies ; 
He yokes the whirlwinds to his car. 

And sweeps the howling skies. 

Ye nations, bend — in reverence bend ; 

Ye monarchs, wait his nod. 
And bid the choral song ascend 

To celebrate our God. 



HYMN. 2 1 

HYMN. 

The Lord our God is Lord of all, 

His station who can find ? 
I hear him in the waterfall ! 

I hear him in the wind ! 

If in the gloom of night I shroud. 

His face I cannot fly ; 
I see him in the evening cloud, 

And in the morning sky. 

He lives, he reigns in every land. 

From winter's polar snows 
To where, across the burning sand, 

The blasting meteor glows ! 

He smiles, we live ; he frowns, we die \ 

We hang upon his word : — 
He rears his red right arm on high. 

And ruin bares the sword. 

He bids his blasts the fields deform — 
Then when his thunders cease. 

Sits like an angel 'mid the storm. 
And smiles the winds to peace ! 



212 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 



HYMN. 



Through sorrow's night, and danger's path, 

Amid the deepening gloom, 
We, soldiers of an injured King, 

Are marching to the tomb. 

There, when the turmoil is no more, 

And all our powers decay, 
Our cold remains in solitude 

Shall sleep the years away. 

Our labors done, securely laid 

In this our last retreat. 
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust 

The storms of life shall beat. 

Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane. 

The vital spark shall lie. 
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise 

To see its kindred sk^'-. 

These ashes too, this little dust, 

Our Father's care shall keep, 
Till the last angel rise, and break 

The long and dreary sleep. 

Then love's soft dew o'er every eye , 

Shall shed its mildest rays. 
And the long silent dust shall burst 

With shouts of endless praise. 



HYMN. 313 

HYMN. 

A PRAGMENT. 

Much in sorrow, oft in woe, 
Onward, Christians, onward go, 
Fight the fight, and worn with strife, 
Steep with tears the bread of life. 

Onward, Christians, onward go, 
Join the war, and face the foe ; 
Faint not ! much doth yet remain, 
Dreary is the long campaign. 

Shrink not, Christians ; will ye yield ? 
Will ye quit the painful field ? 



HYMN. 

Christians ! brethren ! ere we part. 
Join every voice and every heart ; 
One solemn hymn to God we raise, 
One final song of grateful praise. 

Christians ! we here may meet no more. 
But there is yet a happier shore ; 
And there, released from toil and pain, 
Brethren, we shall meet again. 



214 H. K. white's poems. 

Now to God, the Three m One, 
Be eternal glory done ; 
Raise, ye saints, the sound again : 
Ye nations, join the loud Amen. 



SONNET. 

Poor little one ! most bitterly did pain, 
And life's worst ills, assail thine early age ; 
And, quickly tired with this rough pilgrimage, 
Thy wearied spirit did its heaven regain. 
Moaning, and sickly, on the lap of life 
Thou laid'st thine aching head, and thou didst sigh 
A little while, ere to its kindred sky 
Thy soul return'd, to taste no more of strife ! 
Thy lot was happy, little sojourner ! 
Thou hadst no mother to direct thy ways ; 
And fortune frown'd most darkly on thy days. 
Short as they were. Now, far from the low stir 
Of this dim spot, in heaven thou dost repose, 
And look'st and smilest on this world's transient 
woes. 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, 

Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked, 
" If he did not feel for him ?" 

"Do I not feel?'' The doubt is keen as steel. 

Yea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; 

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye 

I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : 

Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, 

And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. 

On this I act — whatever pangs surround, 

' Tis magnanimity to hide the wound ! 

When all was new, and life was in its spring, 

I lived an unloved solitary thing ; 

Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day, 

The piercing cares that wore my youth away : 

Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel ; 

Even then I wept I had not power to heal : 

Even then, deep-sounding through the mighty 

gloom, 
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the 

wretched's doom, [fire— =• 

Who were my friends in youth ? — The midnight 
The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir ; 
To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight, 
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; 

215 



216 H. K. white's poems. 

I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, 

For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn ; 

The sacred source of wo I never ope. 

My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. 

But that I do feel. Time, my friend, will show, 

Though the cold crowd the secret never know ; 

With them I laugh — yet, when no eye can see, 

I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. 

Yes, thou didst wrong me, * * * ; I fondly thought 

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought ! 

I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise, 

And read the truth that in my bosom lies ; 

I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone, 

Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 

Yes — and they yet will mingle. Days and years 

Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : 

We then shall feel that friendship has a power 

To soothe affliction in her darkest hour ; 

Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, • 

And wait the passport to a better land. 

Thine, 

H. K. WHITE. 
Half past Eleven o'clock at Night. 



CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

Yet once more, and once more, awake niy Harp, 
From silence and neglect — one lofty strain. 
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven, 
And seeking mysteries more than words can tell, 



CHRISTMAS-DAY. 217 

I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high, 

Would join the dirge of the departing year. 

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, 

Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear. 

Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; 

Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, 

And fearful joy, to celebrate the day 

Of the Redeemer. — Near two thousand suns 

Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse 

Of generations, since the day-spring first 

Beamed from on high ! — Now to the mighty mass 

Of that increasing aggregate we add 

One unit more. Space, in comparison, 

How small, yet mark'd with how much misery ; 

Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, 

Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ; 

The oppress'd too, in silent bitterness. 

Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of wrong, 

Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, 

And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears. 

So has the year been character'd with wo 

In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and 

crimes ; 
Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived, 
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer 
And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes. 
Went on the way appointed, — path, though rude, 
Yet borne with patience still : — He came to cheer 
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, 
And on the wandering and benighted mind 



19 



218 H. K. white's poems. 

To pour the light of truth. — task divine ! 
more than angel teacher ! He had words 
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds j 
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, 
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm. 
He, pointing to the star of peace on high, 
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 

At the surrounding wreck. 

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd. 
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek. 
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd. 
His persecutors — " Father, pardon them. 
They know not what they do." 

Angels of Heaven, 
Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, 
And did him homage, say, may mortal join 
The hallelujahs of the risen God ? 
Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard 
Amid the seraphim in light divine ? 
Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign. 
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith. 
Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life. 
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now 
Fills my uprising soul. — I mount, I fly 
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs ; 
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, 
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. 

****** 
Dec 25th, 1804. 



NELSONI MORS. 219 



NELSONI MORS. 

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again. 

One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 

I wilJ again suspend thee. I have felt 

The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last, 

At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 

I woke to thee the melancholy song. 

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 

I've journey 'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks 

Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 

Not unrepining, for my froward heart. 

Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow 

Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts 

Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 

Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 

My long neglected Harp. — He must not sink ; 

The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 

No precious dews of Aganippe's well. 

Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloud 

I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 

Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows. 

Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent 

Of Britain, my loved country ; and with tears 

Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 



220 H. K. white's poems. 

Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm 
And honest as the ebbmg blood that flow'd 
Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou, Pity, too, 
If ever I have loved, with faltering step. 
To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; 
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds. 
The dying soul's viaticum ; if oft 
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate 
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, 
With mercy and forgiveness — ^visitant 
Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp. 
And give it feeling, which were else too cold 
For argument so great, for theme so high. 
How dimly on that morn the sun arose. 
Kerchief 'd in mists, and tearful, when 



HYMN 



In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure 
the splendours of the Deity. 



Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ; 



HYMN. 221 

We sing the Saviour of our race, 

The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. 

II. 

When God's right arm is bared for war. 
And thunders clothe his cloudy car. 
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire. 
To escape the horrors of his ire ? 

III. 

*Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly. 
While the dread tempest passes by ; 
God sees his Well-beloved's face. 
And spares us in our hiding-place. 

IV. 

Thus while we dwell in this low scene, 
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
To him, though guilty, still we run. 
And God still spares us for his Son. 

V. 

While yet we sojourn here below, 
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, 
We deeply need a hiding-place. 

VL 

Yet courage — days and years will glide, 
And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
19* 



222 H. K. white's poems. 

Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, 
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. 

VII. 

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; 
Shall meet the Father face to face. 
And need no more a hiding-place. 



The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporan- 
eously, by Henry, one summer evening, when he was with 
a few friends on the Trent, and singing it as he was used 
to do on such occasions. 



A HYMN 

FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 

I. 

Lord, another day is flown. 

And we, a lonely band. 
Are met once more before thy throne, 

To bless thy fostering hand. 

II. 

And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 

To praises low as ours ? 
Thou wilt ! for Thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 



HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 223 

III. 

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign, 

As we before thee pray ; 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

IV. 

let thy grace perform its part. 

And let contention cease ; 
And shed abroad in every heart 

Thine everlasting peace ! 

V. 

Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 

A fiock by Jesus led ; 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine. 

In glory on our head. 

VI. 

And thou will turn our wandering feet. 

And thou wilt bless our way ; 
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 

The dawn of lasting day. 



224 H. K. white's poems. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
I. 

When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train. 
Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 

II. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks. 
It is the Star of Bethlehem. 

HI. 

Once on the raging seas I rode. 

The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 

IV. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze. 

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 

When suddenly a star arose. 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

V. 

It was my guide, my light, my all. 
It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 



HYMN. 225 



VI. 



Now safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem. 

For ever and for evermore, 

The star !— The Star of Bethlehem ! 



A HYMN. 

Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
To thee I call, to thee I cry, 

leave me, leave me not to die ! 

1 strove against thee. Lord, I know, 

I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law ; 
The hour is past — the day's gone by, 
And I am left alone to die. 

pleasures past, what are ye now 
But thorns about my bleeding brow ! 
Spectres that hover round my brain, 
And aggravate and mock my pain. 

For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
Now Vengeance smile — and with a bloWj 
Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 



226 H. K. white's poems. 

Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there. 
Even me, oh bliss ! — ^his wrath may spare. 



MELODY. 

Inserted in a Collection of Selected and Original Songs, 
published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cam- 
bridge. 

I. 

Yes, once more that dying stram, 

Anna, touch thy lute for me ; 
Sweet, when Pity's tones complam. 

Doubly sweet is melody. 

II. 

While the Virtues thus enweave 

Mildly soft the thrilling song. 
Winter's long and lonesome eve 

Glides unfelt, unseen, along. 

III. 

Thus when life hath stolen away, 

And the wintry night is near. 
Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray 

Age's closing evening cheer. 



SONG. — BY WALLER. 227 



SONG.— BY WALLER. 

A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and 
when he returned them to her, she discovered an addi- 
tional Stanza written by him at the bottom of the Song 
here copied. 

Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her, that wastes her time on me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee. 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young. 
And shuns to have her graces spied. 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide. 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth. 
Suffer herself to be desired. 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share, 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



228 H. K. white's poems. 

[Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise j 

And teach the Maid 
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies ; 
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.] 

H. K. White. 



«I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD." 

I. 

When twilight steals along the ground, 
And all the bells are ringing round, 

One, two, three, four, and five, 
I at my study-window sit. 
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, 

To bliss am all alive. 

II. 

But though impressions calm and sweet 
Thrill round my heart a holy heat. 

And I am inly glad. 
The tear-drop stands in either eye. 
And yet I cannot tell thee why, 

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 

III. 

The silvery rack that flies away 
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, 



"I AM PLEASED, AND YET i'm SAD." 229 

Does that disturb my breast ? 
Nay, what have I, a studious man, 
To do with hfe's unstable plan. 

Or pleasure's fading vest ? 

IV. 

Is it that here I must not stop. 
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 

Must bend my lonely way ? 
No, surely no ! for give but me 
My own fire-side, and I shall be 

At home where'er I stray. 

V. 

Then is it that yon steeple there, 
With music sweet shall fill the air, 

When thou no more canst hear ? 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! for then forgiven 
I shall be with my God in Heaven, 

Released from every fear. 

VI. 

Then whence it is I cannot tell. 
But there is some mysterious spell 

That holds me when I'm glad ; 
And so the tear-drop fills my eye, 
When yet in truth I know not why, 

Or wherefore I am sad. 



20 



230 H. K. white's poems. 



SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low, 
That bids this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan, 
It is that I am all alone. 

In woods and glens I love to roam, 
When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
With hallow 'd airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sear and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed ; 
I would not be a leaf, to die 
Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 

The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
I've none to smile when I am free. 
And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view. 
That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 



LINES TO FANNT. 231 



If far from me the Fates remove 
Domestic peace, connubial love, 
The prattling ring, the social cheer, 
Affection's voice, affection's tear, 
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, 
To me your iron aid impart ! 

teach me, when the nights are chill. 
And my fire-side is lone and still ; 
When to the blaze that crackles near, 

1 turn a tired and pensive ear, 

And Nature conquering bids me sigh. 
For love's soft accents whispering nigh 

teach me, on that heavenly road, 
That leads to Truth's occult abode, 
To wrap my soul in dreams divine. 
Till earth and care no more be mine. 
Let bless'd Philosophy impart 

Her soothing measures to my heart ; 
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears 

1 list the music of the spheres, 
Or on the mystic symbols pore. 
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, 
I shall not brood on summers gone. 
Nor think that I am all alone. 



Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 

Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak ! 
Where art thou, love ? — Around I turn my eye, 

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 



232 H. K. white's poems. 

Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 

Indeed my lonely couch ? — Methought the breath 

Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was cold 
And hollow, and the livery of death 

Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid ! 
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave, 
Through the long wintry night, when wind and 
wave 

Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid. 

Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is a shore 
Of better promise ; and I know at last. 
When the long sabbath of the tomb is past. 

We two shall meet in Christ — ^to part no more. 



POEMS 



OF 



VARIOUS DATES. 



20* 233 



CHILDHOOD 

A POEM. 



This appears to be one of the Author's earliest productions : 
written about the ao;e of fourteen. 



PART I. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass how sweet 
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet ; 
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, 
The village church-yard, and the village-green, 
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, 
The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
The white-wash'd cottage, where the woodbine 

grew. 
And all the favourite haunts our childhood knew ! 
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
To view th' unclouded skies of former days ! 

Beloved age of innocence and smiles. 
When each wing'd hour some new delight beguiles. 
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring true, 
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 
Bless'd Childhood, hail ! — Thee simply will I sing, 
And from myself the artless picture bring ; 
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 

235 



236 H. K. white's poems. 

Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more, 
And every stump familiar to my sight 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat ; 
Here did I love at evening to retreat, 
And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 
Here once again, remote from human noise, 
I sit me down to think of former joys ; [more, 
Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, once 
And once again each infant walk explore. 
While as each grove and lawn I recognise, 
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains resort 
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought ; 
Whose mirror, held unto the mourner's eye. 
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; 
Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely true. 
Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
Recall with faithful vigour to my mind. 
Each face familiar, each relation kind ; 
And all the finer traits of them afford, 
Whose general outline in my heart is stored. 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls. 
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls. 
The village matron kept her little school. 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her mien ; 
Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely clean : 



CHILDHOOD. 237 

Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, 

Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 

And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 

Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 

Faint with old age, and dim were grown her eyes, 

A pair of spetacles their want supplies ; 

These does she guard secure in leathern case. 

From thoughtless wights, in some unweeted place. 

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, 
The low vestibule of learning's fane ; 
Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way. 
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet display. 
Much did I grieve, on that ill-fated morn. 
While I was first to school reluctant borne : 
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she try'd 
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept. 
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, [kept. 
And thought of tender home, where anger never 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils. 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 
First at the form, my task for ever true, 
A little favourite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond delight, 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 

Oh ! had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 



238 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Could she have seen me when revolving years 
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward fate 
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and strife, 
Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd through 
life. 

Where, in the busy scene, by peace unbless'd, 
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
A lonely mariner on the stormy main. 
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 
Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide shore, 
When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ? 
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's alarms, 
Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
Sweet reign of innocence when no crime defiles, 
But each new object brings attendant smiles ; 
When future evils never haunt the sight. 
But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight ; 
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, 
Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the moor, 
When the clock spoke the hour of labour o''er. 
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups were 

seen, 
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 



CHILDHOOD. 239 

Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous race ; 
While others, seated on the dappled grass, 
With doleful tales the light-winged minutes pass. 
Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 
Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling wind ; 
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 
Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, 
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame was wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front, 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer. 
To view our gambols, and our boyish geer. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning round, 
With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
(For out of school she never knew to chide) — 
And wonder at her skill — well known to fame — 
For who could match in spinning with the dame ? 
Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with pride 
To strangers, still her thriftiness testified ; 
Though we poor wights did wonder much in troth, 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well-beloved, our play, 
To chat at home the vacant hour away. 
Many's the time I've scamper'd down the glade, 
To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 



240 H. K. white's poems. 

Which well she loved, as well she knew to sing, 
While we around her form'd a little ring ; 
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, 
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 
Or little children murder'd as they slept ; 
While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept. 
Sad was such tale, and Avonder much did we. 
Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 
Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should know. 
This world's a world of weeping and of wo ! 

Beloved moment ! then 'twas first 1 caught 
The first foundation of romantic thought ; 
Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear. 
Then first that poesy chafm'd mine infant ear. 
Soon stored with much of legendary lore. 
The sports of Childhood charm'd my soul no more. 

Far from the scene of gayety and noise. 
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching §hade. 
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 
While at my feet the rippling runnel ran. 
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air. 
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance there. 



CHILDHOOD. 241 

PART II. 

There are, who think that childhood does not 

share 
With age the cup, the bitter cup of care : 
Alas ! they know not this unhappy truth, 
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 

From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find ; 
At every step has farther cause to know. 
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with wo. 

Yet in the youthful breast for ever caught 
With some new object for romantic thought, 
The impression of the moment quickly flies, 
And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 

How different manhood ! — then does Thought's 

control 
Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart 
Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 
And Care, whom not the gayest can out-brave, 
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. [hence, 
Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd 
We feel a void no joy can recompense. 
And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb. 
Wish that ourselves the next may meet our doom. 

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 
No forms of future ill salute thy view, 
21 



242 H. K. white's poems. 

No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, 
But halcyon peace protects thy dowriy sleep, 
And sanguine Hope, through every storm of life. 
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the internal 
strife. [shrine. 

Yet even round childhood's heart, a thoughtless 
Affection's little thread will ever twine ; 
And though but frail may seem each tender tie. 
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 
Thus, when the long-expected moment came. 
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame. 
Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast. 
And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 
When to the public school compell'd to go. 
What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
There in each breast each active power dilates. 
Which broils whole nations, and convulses states ; 
There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate. 
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere. 
The dark deformities of man appear. 
Yet there the gentler virtues kindred claim. 
There Friendship lights her pure untainted flame, 
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell. 
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell ; 
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 

*Twas there, 0, George ! with thee I learn'dto join 
In Friendship's bands — in amity divine. 
Oh, mournful thought ! — Where is thy spirit now } 
As here I sit on favourite Logar's brow, 



CHILDHOOD. 243 

And trace below each well-remembered glade, 
Where arm m arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. 
Where art thou laid — on what untrodden shore, 
Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen roar, 
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state. 
At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave. 
Without one aiding hand stretch'd out to save ; 
See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend. 
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend ; 
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay. 
Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way. 
While sorrow and disease with anguish rife. 
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 
Again I see his door against thee shut. 
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut ; 
I see thee spent with toil and worn with grief, 
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; 
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, 
Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 

Oh ! that thou could'st, from thme august abode, 
Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road. 
That thou could'st see him at this moment here, 
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear. 
And hover o'er him as he gazes round, 
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. 

Yes ! yes ! his spirit's near ! — The whispering 

breeze 
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees ; 
And lo ! his form transparent I perceive, 



244 H. K. white's poems. 

Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve : 

He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 

While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 

Yet ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 

'Tis Fancy's wild serial dream I ween ; 

By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, 

What fond illusions beam upon the sight ! 

She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms appear ! 

What magic sounds salute the wondering ear ! 

Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, 

And the cold grave yields up its cherish'd dead ; 

While present sorrows banish 'd far away, 

Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, 

Or in the future's cloud-encircled face. 

Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 

And draw minutely every little wile. 

Which shall the feathery hours of time beguile. 

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate. 
The Royal Mary solitary sate, 
Andview'dthe moon-ljeam trembling on the wave, 
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, 
Towards France's distant coast she bent her sight. 
For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight ; 
There did she form full many a scheme of joy. 
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, [beam'd. 
Which bright through Hope's deceitful optics 
And all became the surety which it seem'd ; 
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, 
In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and steep, 



CHILDHOOD. 245 

Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep, 
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have sped, 
To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 
To watch the aspect of the summer morn. 
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn. 
And taste delighted of superior joys, 
Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes ; 
With silent admiration oft we view'd [strew'd ; 
The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave 
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade. 
Round which the silvery sun-beam glancing play'd, 
And the round orb itself, in azure throne. 
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone ; 
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, 
Reviving Nature, hail'd returning day ; [heads, 
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping 
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the meads. 
While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, 
The birds sung pseans to the source of light : 
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise. 
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies 
And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no more 
Could trace him in his high aerial tour ; 
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 
Came wafted slow the wary breeze along ; 
And we have thought how happy were our lot, 
Bless'd v/ith some sweet, some solitary cot. 
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 
Began in every dell her forms to weave. 
We might pursue our sports from day to day, 
And in each other's arms wear life away. 

21 * 



246 H. E. WHITE S POEMS. 

At sultry noon too, when our toils were done, 
We to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet : 
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore 
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no more ; 
Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept. 
Sung wo unto the wicked land — and wept ; 
Or, fancy -led — saw Jeremiah mourn 
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 
Then to another shore perhaps would rove, 
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove ; 
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, 
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band. 
The ancient legends of our native land — 
Chivalric Britomart, and Una fair. 
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark despair, 
By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we talk'd, 
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd. 
And when the blood-fraught galliots of Rome 
Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom : 
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters flow, 
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of wo. 

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell [knell, 

Which summon'd us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's 

And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear. 

It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 

Yet even then, (for oh ! what chains can bind, 

What powers control, the energies of mind !) 



CHILDHOOD. 247 

Even then we soar'd to many a height sublime, 
And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, 
Endear'd b}'- Friendship's unrestrained talk, 
When to the upland heights we bent our way, 
To view the last beam of departing day ; 
How calm was all around ! no playful breeze 
Sigh'd mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 
But all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 
The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee. 
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony ; 
The silver mirror of the lucid brook. 
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took ; 
The rugged arch, that clasp 'd its silent tides. 
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its sides : 
The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight ; 
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight ; 
All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high. 
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride 
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, 
And tinged with such variety of shade. 
To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey'd. 
In these what forms romantic did we trace, 
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, 
Leading the embattled seraphim to war, 
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky— =? 



248 H. Z. WHITE S POEMS. 

Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 
A ridge of glaciers dressed in mural white, 
Hugely terrific. — :But those times are o'er. 
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no more ; 
For thou art gone, and I am left below, 
Alone to struggle through this world of wo. 

The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll, 

And each revolve conducts me toward the goal ; 

Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, 

One endless continuity of grief; 

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts sublime, 

Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant 
For hoards of wealth which ye will never want : 
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 
The calms of peace and happiness divine ! 
Far other cares be mine — Men little crave 
In this short journey to the silent grave ; [health, 
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and 
I envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 
Yet grieve not I, that Fate did not decree 
Paternal acres to await on me ; 
She gave me more, she placed within my breast 
A heart with little pleased — with little bless'd : 
I look around me, where, on every side. 
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 
And could my sight be borne to either zone, 
I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander ? shall the muse 



CHILDHOOD. 249 

For golden baits, her simple theme refuse ? 

Oh, no ! but while the weary spirit greets 

The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone sweets, 

It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, 

And prattles on in desultory song. 

That song must close — the gloomy mists of night 

Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, 

And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, 

Steals on the welkin in primaeval jet. 

The song must close. — Once more my adverse lot 
Leads me reluctant from this cherish'd spot : 
Again compels to plunge in busy life, 
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 

Scenes of my youth — ere my unwilling feet 
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat, 
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'd o'er 
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, 
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due. 
One long, one last affectionate adieu. 
Grant that, if ever Providence should please 
To give me an old age of peace and ease. 
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days 
May wear away in gradual decays ; 
And oh ! ye spirits, who unbodied play. 
Unseen upon the pinions of the day. 
Kind genii of my native fields benign, 
Who were * # * * 



FRAGMENT 

OF AN 

ECCENTRIC DRAMA, 

WKITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 

1. 

Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry-j merry, go the bells, 

Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale, 

« Swinging slow with sullen roar," 
Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay ! 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 

2. 

Round the oak, and round the elm, 

Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
The sentry ghost it stands aloof. 
So merrily, merrily foot it round. 
Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry go the bells 
Swelling in the nightly gale, 
The sentry ghost. 
It keeps its post, 
- 250 



THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 251 

And soon, and soon our sports must fail : 
But let us trip the nightly ground, 
While the merry, merry bells ring round. 

3. 

Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 
See, see, the winding-sheet ! 

Our dance is done, 

Our race is run. 
And we must lie at the alder's feet ! 

Ding-dong, ding-dong. 

Merry, merry go the bells, 
Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 

And we must seek 

Our death-beds bleak, 
Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 

Thei/ vanish — The Goddess of Consumption de- 
scends, habited in a sky-hlue Robe, attended by 
mournful Music. 

Come, Melancholy, sister mine. 

Cold the dews, and chill the night ! 
Come from thy dreary shrine ! 

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 

And underneath the sickly ray. 

Troops of squalid spectres play, 

And the dying mortals' groan 

Startles the night on her dusky throne. 

Come, come, sister mine ! 

Gliding on the pale moon-shine : 



252 H. K. white's poems. 

We'll ride at ease, 
On the tainted breeze, 
And oh ! our sport will be divine. 

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a 
deep Glen in the rear, habited in Black and 
covered ivith a thick Veil — She speaks. 

Sister, from my dark abode, 
Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 
Hither I come, at thy command : 
Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 
I will smooth the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me. 
Come, let us speed our way 
Where the troops of spectres play 
To charnel-houses, church-yards drear, 
Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 
A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, 
And skim along, the blue tomb-stones. 
Come, let us speed away. 
Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
I will smooth the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave. 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

Consumption. 

Come, let us speed our way ! 
Join our hands, and spread our tether ! 



THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 253 

I will furnish food for thee, 

Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 

And the grass shall wave 

O'er many a grave, 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

Melancholy. 

Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
Oh ! I know her by that tear, 
By that blue eye's languid glare, 
By her skin, and by her hair : 
She is mine. 
And she is thine. 
Now the deadliest draught prepare. 

Consumption. 

In the dismal night air dress 'd, 
I will creep into her breast ; 
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, 
And feed on the vital fire within. 
Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
When they sparkle most, she dies ! 
Mother, do not trust her breath,— 
Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
Father, do not strive to save her, — 
She is mine, and I must have her ! 
The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 
The winding-sheet must wrap her head ; 
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 
For soon in the grave the maid must lie, 
23 



254 H. K. white's poems. 

The worm it will riot 
On heavenly diet, 
When death has deflower'd her eye. 

[ They vanish. 

While Consumption speaks, Angelina etiters. 

Angelina. 

With* what a silent and dejected pace 
Dost thou, wan Moon ! upon thy way advance 
In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer ! 
Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, 
That thus, with such a melancholy grace. 
Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 
Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 
Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 
Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night. 
Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 
With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan traveller^ 
How like thy fate to mine ! — Yet I have still 
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou lack'st j 
My woes will soon be buried in the grave 
Of kind forgetfulness : — my journey here. 
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, 
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 
But thou, unhappy Queen ! art doom'd to trace 

* With how sad steps, O moon ! thou climb'st the skies, 
How silently and with how wan a face ! 

Sir P. Sidney 



THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 255 

Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, 
While many a lagging age shall sweep beneath 
The leaden pinions of unshaken time ; 
Though not a hope shall spread its glittering hue 
To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 

that the sum of human happiness 

Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, 

That when possess'd, it is but lessen'd grief; 

And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 

That blows across the dismal waste of life, 

But bears it from the view. — Oh ! who would shun 

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to press 

The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, 

And yet endure the various ills of life, 

And dark vicissitudes ! — Soon, I hope, I feel, 

And am assured, that I shall lay my head, 

My weary aching head, on its last rest. 

And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 

Will flourish sweetly, — And then they will weep 

That one so young, and what they're pleased to 

call 
So beautiful, should die so soon — And tell 
How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang 
Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek. 
Oh, foolish ones ! why, I shall sleep so sweetly. 
Laid in my darksome grave, that they themselves 
Might envy me my rest ! — And as for them 
Who, on the score of former intimacy. 
May thus remembrance me — they must themselves 
Successive fall. 

Around the winter fire 
(When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, 



256 H. K. white's pojems. 

And shrill the skater's irons on the pool 

Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs 

His graceful evolutions) they not long 

Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats 

Of early youth, but silent, one by one, 

Shall drop into their shrouds. — Some, in their age, 

Ripe for the sickle ; others young, like me, 

And falling green beneath th' untimely stroke. 

Thus, in short time, in the church-yard forlorn, 

Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them down, 

And dwell with me, a happy family. 

And oh ! thou cruel, yet beloved youth. 

Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn. 

Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, 

And say that I was gentle and deserved 

A better lover, and I shall forgive 

All, all thy wrongs ; — and then do thou forget 

The hapless Margaret, and be as bless 'd [sing, 

As wish can make thee — Laugh, and play, and 

With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 

Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 



TO A FRIEND. 

WRITTEN AT A VERT EARLY AGE. 

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, 
And many other noble Grecian, 
Who wealth and palaces resign'd, 
In cots the joys of peace to find 5 



TO A FRIEND. 257 

Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, 

(Disgusting food to dainty chops,) 

I've also read of, without wonder ; 

But such a curs'd egregious blunder, 

As that a man of wit and sense. 

Should leave his books to hoard up pence.— « 

Forsake the loved Aonian maids, 

For all the petty tricks of trades, 

I never, either now, or long since, 

Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; 

That one who learning's joys hath felt, 

And at the Muse's altar knelt, 

Should leave a life of sacred leisiu'e. 

To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 

And metamorphosed to an alley duck, 

Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 

Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! 

A courtier throwing up his pension, — 

A lawyer working without a fee, — 

A parson giving charity, — 

A truly pious methodist preacher, — 

Are not, egad, so out of nature. 

Had nature made thee half a fool. 

But given thee wit to keep a school, 

I had not stared at thy backsliding : 

But when thy wit I can confide in, 

When well I know thy just pretence 

To solid and exalted sense ; 

When well I know that on thy head 

Philosophy her lights hath shed, 

I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum too. 

And wonder what this world will come to ! 
22* 



558 H. K. white's poems. 

Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine 
That thou alone dost singly shine ? 
Shall I lament that thou alone, 
Of men of parts, hast prudence known? 



LINES 

ON READING THE POEMS OP WARTON. 



AGE FOURTEEN. 



Oh, Warton ! to thy soothing shell, 
Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, 
Where the brook runs babbling by. 
For ever I could listening lie ; 
And catching all the Muse's fire, 
Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 

What pleasing themes thy page adorn, 
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, 
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime. 
And Melancholy's mournful chime ! 
Each with unwonted graces shines 
In thy ever-lovely lines. 

Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed. 
Now the love-lorn swain complains, 
And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 
Now the Sylvan scenes appear 



TO THE MUSE, 259 

Through all the changes of the year ; 
Or the elegiac strain 
Softly sings of mental pain, 
And mournful diapasons sail 
On the faintly-dying gale. 

] But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 
^ On middle flight we cease to soar, 
For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, 
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep. 

In strains unheard before. 
Now, now the rising fire thrills high. 
Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 

And every throne explore ; 
The soul entranced, on mighty wings. 
With all the poet's heat, up springs. 

And loses earthly woes ; 
Till all alarm'd at the giddy height. 
The Muse descends on gentler flight. 

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 



TO THE MUSE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train 
Chill poverty and misery are seen. 

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane 
Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. 



260 H. K. white's poems. 

Why to thy votaries dost thoa give to feel 
So keenly all the scorns — the jeers of life ? 
Why not endow them to endure the strife 

With apathy's invulnerable steel, [to heal ? 

Of self-content and ease, each torturing wound 

11. 

Ah ! who would taste your self-deluding joys, 
That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, 

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, 
Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb ? 

What is the charm which leads thy victims on 
To persevere in paths that lead to wo ? 
What can induce them in that rout to go. 

In which innumerous before have gone, 

And died in misery, poor and wo-begone. 

III. 

Yet can I ask what charms in thee are found ; 
I who have drank from thine ethereal rill. 

And tasted all the pleasures that abound 
Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill ? [thrill ! 

I, through whose soul the Muse's strains aye 
Oh ! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ; 

And though our annals fearful stories tell. 
How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died. 
Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 



TO LOVE. 261 



TO LOVE. 



Why should I blush to own I love ? 
'Tis love that rules the realms above. 
Why should I blush to say to all, 
That Virue holds my heart in thrall ? 



II. 

Why should I seek the thickest shade, 
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd? 
Why the stern brow deceitful move. 
When I am languishing with love ? 



III. 

Is it weakness thus to dwell 
On passion that I dare not tell ? 
Such weakness I would ever prove ; 
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love. 



262 H. K. white's poems. 



THE WANDERING BOY. 

A SONG. 

I. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild 

moor, 
And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 
When the chilling tear stands in my comfortless eye, 
Oh, bow hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy ! 

II. 

The winter is cold, and I have no vest. 
And my heart it is cold as it beats in my breast ; 
No father, no mother, no kindred have I, 
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy. 

III. 

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale. 
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrowful 
tale. 

IV. 

But my father and mother were summon'd away. 
And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a prey ; 



FRAGMENT. 263 

I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, 
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. 

V. 

The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the gale, 
And no one will list to my innocent tale ; 
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie. 
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering Boy. 



FRAGMENT. 

The western gale, 

Mild as the kisses of connubial love, 

Pla^T's round my languid limbs, as all dissolved. 

Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade 

I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat : 

While rippling o'er his deep-worn pebble bed. 

The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, 

Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 

Full many a floweret rears its head, — or pink. 

Or gaudy dafl'odil. — 'Tis here, at noon, 

The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat retire, 

And lave them in the fountain ; here secure 

From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport ; 

Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, 

Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly. 

Invoke the God of slumber. * * * 



264 H. K. white's poems. 

And, hark ! how merrily, from distant tower, 
Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale 
They rise with gradual swell, distinct and loud ; 
Anon they die upon the pensive ear. 
Melting in faintest music. — They bespeak 
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, 
Commix'd along the unfrequented shore. 
The sound of village dance and tabor loud, 
Startling the musing ear of Solitude. 

Such is the jocund wake of Whitsuntide, 
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld ! 
Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance 
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at eve 
Commence the harmless rites and auguries ; 
And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring moon, 
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence. 
And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon 
Tell of uncharnell'd spectres, seen to glide 
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path. 
Startling the 'nighted traveller ; while the sound 
Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come 
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen, 
Struck on his frozen ear. 

Oh, Ignorance ! 
Thou art fall'n man's best friend ! With thee he 

speeds 
In frigid apathy along his way, 



FRAGMENT. 265 

And never does the tear of agony 

Burn down his scorching cheek ; or the keen steel 

Of wounded feehng penetrate his breast. 

Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 
I taste of all the keener happiness 
Which sense refined affords — Even now, my heart 
Would fain induce me to forsake the world. 
Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's 

weeds. 
With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 
To sojourn in the woodland. — Then my thought 
Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss. 
That I could almost err in reason's spite, 
And trespass on my judgment. 

Such is life ; 
The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
And when attain'd, another still succeeds. 
Far fairer than before, — yet compass'd round 
With the same dangers, and the same dismay. 
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, 
Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find. 
When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
'Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. 



23 



266 H. K. WHITKS POEMS. 



ODE, 

WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAT. 

Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 
And now they die upon the veering breeze ; 

Anon they thunder loud 

Full on the musing ear. 

Wafted in varying cadence, by the shore 
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 

A day of Jubilee, 

An ancient holiday. 

And, lo ! the rural revels are begun. 
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, 
On the smooth-shaven green, 
Resounds the voice of Mirth. 

Alas ! regardless of the tongue of Fate, 
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they 
Who now are in their graves, 
Kept up the Whitsun dance. 

And that another hour, and they must fall 
Like those who went before, and sleep as still 
Beneath the silent sod, 
A cold and cheerless sleep." 



CANZONET. 267 

Yet why should thoughts hke these intrude to scare 
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign 

To smile upon us here; 

A transient visitor ? 

Mortals ! be gladsome while ye have the power, 
And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of joy ; 
In time the bell will toll 
That warns ye to your graves. 

I to the woodland solitude will bend [shout 

My lonesome way — where Mirth's obstreperous 

Shall not intrude to break 

The meditative hour. 

There will I ponder on the state of man, 
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate 

This day of jubilee 

To sad reflection's shrine : 

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond 
This world of care, to where the steeple loud 
Shall rock above the sod. 
Where I shall sleep in peace. 



CANZONET. 

I. 

Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee, 
Cold the rain beats on thy breast : 

Why should Horror's voice astound thee ? 
Death can bid the wretched rest ! 



268 H. K. white's poems. 

All under the tree 
Thy bed may be, 
And thou may'st slumber peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden ! once gay Pleasure knew thee ; 

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : 
Love has been a felon to thee, 
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep : 
There's rest for thee 
All under the tree, 
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 



COMMENCEMENT OP A POEM 

ON DESPAIR. 

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound 
With winning elegance attune their song, 
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, 
And charm the soul with softest harmony : 
'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen 
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity ; 
Her heart light dancing to the sounds of pleasure, 
Pleasure of days to come. — Memory, too, then 
Comes with her sister. Melancholy sad, 
Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, 
Scenes never to return.* 

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of 
Hope and of Memory. 



ON DESPAIR. 269 

Such subjects merit poets used to raise 

The attic verse harmonious ; but for me 

A dreadlier theme demands my backward hand 

And bids me strike the strings of dissonance 

With frantic energy. 

'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing 1 can 

Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, 

And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, 

Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard 

At noon of night, where on the coast of blood, 

The lacerated son of Angola 

Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning wind , 

And, when the awful silence of the night 

Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's heari 

He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 

Half utter'd, half suppress'd — ■ 

'Tis him I sing — Despair — terrific name. 

Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 

Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 

For to a theme revolting as is this. 

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, 

Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound 

Of lyre ^olian, or the martial bugle. 

Calling the hero to the field of glory, 

And firing him with deeds of high emprise. 

And warlike triumph : but from scenes like miriti 

Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard 

Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 

Hence, then, soft maids, 
And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream : 

For aid like yours I seek not ; 'tis for powers 
23* 



270 H. K. white's poems. 

Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ! 
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends ! 

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, 
And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 
Souls of the damned ; — Hither, oh J come and join 
The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 
Than all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing Despair ! 
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power : 
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks. 
Till the loud psean ring through hell's high vault, 
And the remotest spirits of the deep 
Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 



TO THE WIND, 

AT MIDNIGHT. 

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 

Blasts of the night ! ye howl as now 

My shuddering casement loud 
With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe. 
The howling sweep, the sudden rush ; 
And when the passing gale 
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. 



TO THE WIND. 271 

Once more I listen ; sadly communing 
Within me, — once more mark, storm-clothed, 

The moon as the dark cloud 

Glides rapidly away. 

I, deeming that the voice of spirits dwells 
In tliBse mysterious moans, in solemn thought 

Muse in the choral dance, 

The dead man's Jubilee. 

Hark ! how the spirit knocks, — how loud — 
Even at my window knocks, — again : — 

I cannot — dare not sleep, — 

It is a boisterous night. 

I would not, at this moment, be 
In the drear forest-groves, to hear 

This uproar and rude song 

Ring o'er the arched aisles. 

The ear doth shudder at such sounds 
As the embodied winds, in their disport, 

Wake in the hollow woods. 

When man is gone to sleep. 

There have been heard unchristian shrieks, 
And rude distemper'd merriment, 

As though the autumnal woods 

Were all in morrice-dance. 

There's mystery in these sounds, and 1 
Love not to have the grave disturb'd ; 



272 H. K. white's poems. 

And dismal trains arise 
From the unpeopled tombs. 

Spirits, I pray ye, let them sleep 
Peaceful in their cold graves, nor waft 
The sear and whispering leaf 
From the inhumed breast. 



SONNET. 

TO DECEMBER. 

DARK-visaged visitor ! who comest here 

Clad in thy mournful tunic, to repeat [feet) 
(While glooms and chilling rains enwrap thy 

The solemn requiem of the dying year ; 

Not undelightful to my list'ning ear [seat, 

Sound thy dull showers, as o'er my woodland 
Dismal, and drear, the leafless trees they beat : 

Not undelightful, in their wild career. 

Is the wild music of thy howling blasts, [Time 
Sweeping the groves' long aisle, while sullen 

Thy stormy mantle o'er his shoulder casts. 

And, rock'd upon his throne, with chant sublime, 

Joins the full-pealing dirge, and winter weaves 

Her dark sepulchral wreath of faded leaves. 



THE FAIR 31 AID OF CLIFTON. 273 

THE FAIR MAID OF CLIFTON. 

A NEW BALLAD IN THE OLD STYLE. 

The night it was dark, and the winds were high, 

And mournfully waved the wood, 
As Bateman met his Margaret 

By Trent's majestic flood. 

He press'd the maiden to his breast, 
And his heart it was rack'd with fear. 

For he knew, that again, 't was a deadly chance 
If ever he press'd her there. 

" Oh ! Margaret, wilt thou bear me true," 

He said, " while I am far away. 
For to-morrow I go to a foreign land. 

And there I have long to stay.'^ 

And the maid she vow'd she would bear him true, 
And thereto she plighted her troth ; 

And she pray'd the fiend might fetch her away, 
When she forgot her oath. 

And the night-owl scream'd, as again she swore, 
And the grove it did mournfully moan. 

And Bateman's heart within him sunk. 
He thought 't was his dying groan. 

And shortly he went with Clifton, his Lord, 
To abide in a foreisfn land ; 



274 H. K, white's poems. 

And Margaret she forgot her oath, 
And she gave to another her hand. 

Her husband was rich, but old, and crabb'd, 

And oft the false one sigh'd, 
And wish'd that ere she broke her vow, 

She had broken her heart, and died. 

And now return'd, her Bateman came 

To demand his betrothed bride ; 
But soon he learn'd that she had sought 

A wealthier lover's side. 

And when he heard the dreadful news, 

No sound he utter'd more. 
But his stiffen'd corse, ere the morn, was seen 

Hung at his false one's door. 

And Margaret, all night, in her bed, 

She dreamed hideous dreams ; 
And oft upon the moaning wind 

Were heard her frightful screams. 

And when she knew of her lover's death, 

On her brow stood the clammy dew, [fate, 

She thought of her oath, and she thought of her 
And she saw that her days were few. 

But the Lord He is just, and the guilty alone 
Have to fear of his vengeance the lash, 

The thunderbtDlt harms not the innocent head, 
While the criminal dies 'neath the flash. 



THE FAIR MAID OF CLIFTON. 275 

His justice, she knew, would spare her awhile 
For the child that she bare in her womb ; 

But she felt, that when it was born therefrom 
She must instantly go to her tomb. 

The hour approach'd, and she view'd it with fear 

As the date of her earthly time ; 
And she tried to pray to Almighty God, 

To expiate her crime. 

And she begg'd her relations would come at the day, 
And the parson would pray at her side ; 

And the clerk would sing a penitent hymn, 
With all the singers beside. 

And she begg'd they would bar the windows so 
strong, 

And put a new lock to the door ; 
And sprinkle with holy water the house, 

And over her chamber-floor. 

And they barr'd with iron the windows so strong, 
And they put a new lock on the door ; 

And the parson he came, and he carefully strew'd 
With holy water the floor. 

And her kindred came to see the dame, 
And the clerk, and the singers beside ; 

And they did sing a penitent hymn, 
And with her did abide. 

And midnight came, and shortly the dame 
Did give to her child the light ; 



276 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

And then she did pray, that they would stay, 
And pass with her the night. 

And she begg'd they would sing the penitent hymn, 

And pray with all their might ; 
For sadly I fear, the fiend will be here, 

And fetch me away this night. 

And now without, a stormy rout, 

With howls, the guests did hear ; 
And the parson he pray'd, for he was afraid 

And the singers they quaver'd with fear. 

And Marg'ret pray'd the Almighty's aid, 

For louder the tempest grew ; 
And every guest, his soul he bless'd, 

As the tapers burned blue. 

And the fair again, she pray'd of the men 

To sing with all their might ; 
And they did sing, till the house did ring. 

And louder they sung for affright. 

But now their song, it died on their tongue, 
For sleep it was seizing their sense ; 

And Marg'ret scream'd, and bid them not sleep, 
Or the fiends would bear her thence. 



THE ROBIN RED-BREAST. 277 



SONG. 

THE ROBIN RED-BREAST. A VERY EARLY 
COMPOSITION. 

When the winter wind whistles around my lone 

cot, 
And my holiday friends have my mansion forgot, 
Though a lonely poor being, still do not I pine, 
While my poor Robin Red-breast forsakes not my 

shrine. 

He comes with the morning, he hops on my arm, 
For he knows 't is too gentle to do him a harm : 
And in gratitude ever beguiles with a lay 
The soul-sick'ning thoughts of a bleak winter's day. 

What, though he may leave me, when spring 

again smiles. 
To waste the sweet summer in love's little wiles, 
Yet will he remember his fosterer long. 
And greet her each morning with one little song. 

And when the rude blast shall again strip the trees, 
And plenty no longer shall fly on the breeze. 
Oh ! then he '11 return to his Helena kind, [wind. 
And repose in her breast from the rude northern 

My sweet little Robin's no holiday guest. 
He '11 never forget his poor Helena's breast ; 
But will strive to repay, by his generous song. 

Her love, and her cares, in the winter day long. 
24 



278 H. K. white's poems. 



WINTER SONG. 

Rouse the blazing midnight fire, 
Heap the crackUng fagots higher ; 
Stern December reigns without, 
With old Winter's blust'ring rout. 

Let the jocund timbrels sound, 
Push the jolly goblet round ; 
Care a vaunt, with all thy crew, 
GobUns dire, and devils blue. 

Hark ! without the tempest growls ; 
And the affrighted watch-dog howls , 
Witches on their broomsticks sail, 
Death upon the whistling gale. 

Heap the crackling fagots higher. 
Draw your easy chairs still nigher ; 
And to guard from wizards hoar. 
Nail the horse-shoe on the door. 

Now repeat the freezing story. 
Of the murder 'd traveller gory, 
Found beneath the yew-tree sear. 
Cut, his throat, from ear to ear. 

Tell, too, how his ghost, all bloody,' 
Frighten'd once a neighb'ring goody; 
And how, still at twelve he stalks, 
Groaning o'er the wild-wood walks. 



SONG. 279 

Then, when fear usurps her sway, 
Let us creep to bed away ; 
Each for ghosts, but Uttle bolder, 
Fearfully peeping o'er his shoulder. 



SONG. 

Sweet Jessy ! I would fain caress 
That lovely cheek divine ; 

Sweet Jessy, I'd give worlds to press 
That rising breast to mine. 

Sweet Jessy ! I with passion burn 
Thy soft blue eyes to see ; 

Sweet Jessy, I would die to turn 
Those melting eyes on me. 

Yet, Jessy, lovely as * * * 
Thy form and face appear, 

I 'd perish ere I would consent 
To buy them with a tear. 



SONG. 

Oh, that I were the fragrant flower that kisses 
My Arabella's breast that heaves on high ; 

Pleased should I be to taste the transient blisses, 
And^n the melting throne to faint, and die. 



280 H. K. white's poems. 

Oh, that I were the robe that loosely covers 
Her taper limbs, and Grecian form divine 5 

Or the entwisted zones, like meeting lovers, 
That clasp her waist in many an aery twine 

Oh, that my soul might take its lasting station 
In her waved hair, her perfumed breath to sip ; 

Or catch, by chance, her blue eyes' fascination ! 
Or meet, by stealth, her soft vermillion lip. 

But chain'd to this dull being, I must ever 

Lament the doom by which I'm hither placed ; 

Must pant for moments I must meet with never, 
And dream of beauties I must never taste. 



ON RURAL SOLITUDE. 

When wandering, thoughtful, my stray steps at eve 

(Released from toil and careless of their way,) 

Have reach'd, unwittingly, some rural spot 

Where Quiet dwells in cluster'd cottages, 

Fast by a wood, or on the river's marge, 

I have sat down upon the shady stile. 

Half wearied with the long and lonesome walk. 

And felt strange sadness steal upon the heart, 

And unaccountable. — The rural smells 

And sounds speak all of peacefulness and home ; 

The lazy mastiff, who my coming eyed, 

Half balancing 'twixt fondness and distrust, 



A FRAGMENT. 281 

Recall'd some images, now half forgot, 

Of the warm hearth at eve, when flocks are penn'd 

And cattle housed, and every labor done. 

And as the twilight's peaceful hour closed in, 

The spiral smoke ascending from the thatch, 

And the eve sparrow's last retiring chirp. 

Have brought a busy train of hov'ring thoughts 

To recollection, — rural offices. 

In younger days and happier times perform'd ; 

And rural friends, now with their grave-stones 

carved. 
And tales which wore away the winter's night 
Yet fresh in memory. — Then my thoughts assume 
A different turn, and I am e'en at home. 
That hut is mine ; that cottage half-embower'd 
With modest jessamine, and that sweet spot 
Of garden-ground, where, ranged in meet array, 
Grow countless sweets, the wall-flower and the pink 
And the thick thyme-bush — even that is mine : 
And that old mulberry that shades the court, 
Has been my joy from very childhood up. 



In hollow music sighing through the glade. 
The breeze of autumn strikes the startled ear, 

And fancy, pacing through the woodland shade, 
Hears in the gust the requiem of the year. 

As with lone tread along the whisp'ring grove 
I liiSt the moan of the capricious wind, 

24* 



282 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

I, too, o'er fancy's milky-way would rove, 
But sadness chains to earth my pensive mind. 

When by the huddling brooklet's secret brim 
1 pause, and woo the dreams of Helicon, 

Sudden my saddest thoughts revert to him [gone. 
Who taught that brook to wind, and now is 

When by the poets' sacred urns I kneel, 
And rapture springs exultant to my reed, 

The paean dies, and sadder measures steal. 
And grief and Montague demand the meed. 



Thou mongrel, who dost show thy teeth, and yelp> 

And bay the harmless stranger on his way, 
Yet, when the wolf appears, dost roar for help. 

And scamperest quickly from the bloody fray ; 
Dare but on my fair fame to cast a slur. 

And I will make thee know, unto thy pain, 
Thou vile old good-for-nothing cur ! 

I, a Laconian dog, can bite again : 
Yes, I can make the Daunian tiger flee, [thee. 
Much more a bragging, foul-mouth'd whelp like 
Beware Lycambes', or Bupalus' fate — 
The wicked still shall meet my deadly hate ; 
And know, when once I seize upon my prey, 

I do not languidly my wrongs bemoan ;• 
I do not whine and cant the time away, [bone. 

But, with revengeful gripe, I bite him to the 



TO THE MORNING STAR. 283 

ODE. 

TO THE MORNING STAR. 

Many invoke pale Hesper's pensive sway, 
When rest supine leans o'er the pillowing clouds, 

And the last tinklings come 

From the safe folded flock. 

But me, bright harbinger of coming day, 
Who shone the first on the primeval morn : 

Me, thou delightest more — 

Chastely luxuriant. 

Let the poor silken sons of slothful pride 
Press now their downy couch in languid ease, 

While visions of dismay 

Flit o'er their troubled brain. 

Be mine to view, awake to nature's charms. 
Thy paly flame evanish from the sky. 

As gradual day usurps 

The welkin's glowing bounds. 

Mine, to snuff" up the pure ambrozial breeze. 
Which bears aloft the rose-bound car of morn. 

And mark his early flight 

The rustling skylark wing. 

And thou, Hygeia, shalt my steps attend, 
Thou, whom distracted, I so lately woo'd. 



284 H. K, white's poems. 

As on my restless bed 
Slow past the tedious night ; 

And slowly, by the taper's sickly gleam, 
Drew my dull curtain ; and with anxious eye 

Strove through the veil of night 

To mark the tardy morn. 

Thou, Health, shalt bless me in my early walk, 
As o'er the upland slope I brush the dew, 

And feel the genial thrill 

Dance in my lighten'd veins. 

And as I mark the Cotter from his shed 

Peep out with jocund face — thou, too, Content^ 

Shalt steal into my breast. 

Thy mild, thy placid sway. 

Star of the morning ! these, thy joys, I'll share, 
As rove my pilgrim feet the sylvan haunts ; 

While to thy blushing shrine 

Due orisons shg,ll rise. 



THE HERMIT OF THE PACIFIC; 

OR, THE HORRORS OF UTTER SOLITUDE. 

Oh ! who can paint the unspeakable dismay 
Of utter Solitude, shut out from all 
Of social intercourse. — Oh ! who can say 
What haggard horrors hold in shuddering thral 



THE HERMIT OP THE PACIFIC. 285 

Him, who by some Carvaggian waterfall 
A shipwreck'd man hath scoop'd his desert cave, 
Where Desolation, in her giant pall, 
Sits frowning on the ever-falling wave, 
That wooes the wretch to dig, by her loud shore, 
his grave. 

Thou youthful pilgrim, whose untoward feet 
Too early hath been torn in life's rough way, 
Thou, who endow'd with Fancy's holiest heat, 
Seest dark Misfortune cloud thy morning ray : 
Though doom'd in penury to pine thy day, 
seek not, — seek not in the glooms to shroud 
Of waste, or wilderness — a cast-away — 
Where noise intrudes not, save when in the cloud, 
Riding sublime, the storm roars fearfully, and loud. 

Though man to man be as the ocean shark, 
Reckless, and unrelentingly severe ; [dark. 

Though friendship's cloak must veil the purpose 
While the red poinard glimmers in the rear, 
Yet, is society most passing dear. [refined 

Though mix'd with clouds, its sunshine gleams 
Will through the glooms most pleasantly appear 
And soothe thee, when thy melancholy mind 
Must ask for comfort else of the loud pitiless wind. 

Yet is it distant from the Muse's theme 
To bid thee fly the rural covert still, 
And plunge impetuous in the busy stream, 
Of crowds to take of * * joys thy fill. 
Ah ! no. she wooes thee to attune thy quill 



286 H. K. white's poems. 

In some low village's remote recess, • 
Where thou may'st learn — enviable skill, — 
To heal the sick, and soothe the comfortless, 
To give, and to receive — be blessed, and to bless. 

God unto men hath different powers assign'd — 
There be, who love the city's dull turmoil ; 
There be, who, proud of an ambitious mind, 
From lonely Quiet's hermit-walks recoil : 
Leave thou these insects to their grov'lling toil — 
Thou, whom retired leisure best can please ; 
For thee, the hazle copse's verdant aisle. 
And summer bower, befitting studious ease, 
Prepare a keener bliss than they shall ever seize. 

Lo, the grey morning climbs the eastern tower, 
The dew-drop glistening in her op'ning eye ; 
Now on the upland lawn salute the hour 
That wakes the warbling woods to melody ; 
There sauntering on the stile, embower'd high 
With fragrant hawthorn, and the gadding brier, 
Pore on thy book, or cast by fits thine eye 
Where far below, hill, dale, and village spire. 
And brook, and mead, and wood, far from the sight 
retire. 

But what are these, forsaken and forlorn ? ^ 
^Tis animation breathes the subtle spell — 
Hark ! from the echoing wood the mellow horn 
Winds round from hill to hill, with distant swell 
The peasant's matin rises from the dell ; 
The heavy wagon creaks upon its way, 



THE HERMIT OF THE PACIFIC. 287 

While tinkling soft the silver-tuning bell 
Floats on the gale, or dies by fits away 
From the sweet straw-roof d grange, deep buried 
from the day. 

Man was not made to pine in solitude, 
Ensepulchred, and far from converse placed, 
Not for himself alone, untamed and rude, 
To live the Bittern of the desert waste ; 
It is not his (by manlier virtues graced) 
To pore upon the noontide brook, and sigh, 
And weep for aye o'er sorrow uneffaced ; 
Him social duties call tne tear to dry. 
And wake the nobler powers of usefulness to ply. 

The savage broods that m the forest shroud. 
The Pard and Lion mingle with their kind ; 
And, oh, shall man, with nobler powers endow'd 
Shall he, to nature's strongest impulse blind, 
Bury in shades his proud immortal mind ? 
Like the sweet flower, that on some steep rock 

thrown. 
Blossoms forlorn, rock'd by the mountain wind ; 
A little while it decks the rugged stone. 
Then, withering, fades away, unnoticed and un- 
known ! 

For ye who, fiU'd with fancy's wildest dreams, 
Run from the imperious voice of human pride, 
And shrinking quick from woe's unheeded 

screams. 
Long in some desert-cell your heads to hide, 



288 H. K. white's poems. 

Where yon may muse from morn to eventide j 
Free from the taunts of contumely and scorn, 
From sights of woe — the power to soothe denied, 
Attend the song which in hfe's early morn — 



ELEGY 

Occasioned by the death of Mr. Gill, ivho was 

drowned in the river Trent, while bathing, 9th 

»dugust, 1802. 

He sunk — the impetuous river roll'd along, 
The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath ; 

And rising sad the rustling sedge among, 

The gale of evening touch'd the chords of death. 

Nymph of the Trent ! why didst not thou appear. 
To snatch the victim from thy felon wave ? 

Alas ! too late thou camest to embalm his bier. 
And deck with water-flags his early grave. 

Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, 
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride ; 

While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay. 

And ask the swoln corse from the murdering 
^ tide. 

The stealing tear-drop stagnates in the eye, 
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, 



EXTEMrORANEOUS VEUSES. 289 

I mark them rise — T mark the gen'ral sigh ; 
Unhappy youth ! and wert thou so beloved ? 

On tliee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, 
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade, 

On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink 
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. 

Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet, 

Hail the grey-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale. 

Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet. 
And wild-wood echoes shall repeat the tale. 

And oh ! ye nymphs of Fseon ! who preside 
O'er running rill and salutary stream. 

Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide [scream. 
From the rude death-shriek, and the dying 



EXTEMPORANEOUS VERSES. 



These lines were composed extempore soon after the publication 
of " Clifton Grove," in the presence of an acquaintance who 
doubted the author's ability to write poetry. 



Thou base repiner at another's joy. 

Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, 
Oh, far away from generous Britons fly. 

And find in meaner climes a fitter throne. 

Away, awav ; it shall not be, 

25 



290 H. K. white's poems. 

Thou shalt not dare defile our plains ; 
The truly generous heart disdains 
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he 
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity. 

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed; 

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, 
Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, 

Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; 
When o'er his head in silence that reposes. 

Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear ; 
Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses. 

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe ; 
Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all [fall. 
Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet 



Yet, ah ! thy arrows are too keen, too sure : 

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? 
Alas ! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, 

Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. 
See the lorn Bard at midnight-study sitting, 

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp ; 
While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, 

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. 
Yet say, is bliss upon his brow imprest? [live ? 

Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion 
Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, 

That short quick sigh — their sad responses give. 

And canst thou rob a Poet of his song ? 

Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? 



TO POEST. 291 

Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long : 
Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays 

While yet he lives — for, to his merits just, 
Thougii future ages join, his fame to raise, 

Will the loud trump awake hiscold unheeding dust? 



TO POESY. 

ADDRESSED TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ., SEPT. 10, 1805. 

Yes, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far 
From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! 
And many a flower, which in the passing time 
My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill 
Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. 
Heart-soothing Poesy ! — though thou hast ceased 
To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 
Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still 
Call the warm tear from its thrice-hallow'd cell, 
And with recall'd images of bliss 
Warm my reluctant heart. — Yes, I would throw, 
Once more w^ould throw, a quick and hurried hand 
O'er the responding chords. — It hath not ceased: 
It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth 
Plays round' my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek ; 
Stillj though unbidden, plays. — Fair Poesy ! 
The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, 
Sunshine and storm, with various interchange, 
Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and 
month, 



292 H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, 
Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. — Sorceress ! 
I cannot burst thy bonds ! — It is but lift 
Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault. 
Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, 
And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 
And I could follow thee, on thy night's work. 
Up to the regions of thrice-chasten'd fire. 
Or in the caverns of the ocean-flood, 
Thrid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 
Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 
Must turn away from the high minstrelsy 
Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly 
Must turn away ; there are severer strains 
(And surely they are sweet as ever smote 
The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 
Released and disembodied,) there are strains. 
Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 
Through the probation of revolving years. 
And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 
Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 
Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 
I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 
With patient expectation. — Yea, sometimes 
Foretaste of bliss rewards me ; and sometimes 
Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, 
And minister strange music, which doth seem 
Now near, now distant, now on high, now low. 
Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete 
And full fruition fiUino; all the soul. 



FRAGMENTS. 293 

Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe 

The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 

Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 

Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone ; 

When by clear fountain, or embower'd brake, 

I lay a listless muser, prizing, far 

Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 

But for such recollections, I could brace 

My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 

Of science unregretting ; eye afar 

Philosophy upon her steepest height, 

And with bold step, and resolute attempt, 

Pursue her to the innermost recess, 

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 



I HAVE a wish, and near my heart 

That wish lies buried ; 
To keep it there's a foolish part. 

For, oh ! it must not be, 

It must not, must not be. 

Why, my fond heart, why beat'st thou so ? 

The dream is fair to see — 
But, did the lovely flatterer go ; 

It must not, must not be, 

Oh ! no, it must not be. 

'Tis well this tear in secret falls. 

This weakness suits not me ; 
I know where sterner duty calls— ? 
25* 



294 H. K. white's poems. 

It must not, cannot be, 
Oh ! no, it cannot be. 



Once more his beagles wake the siumb'ring morn, 

And the high woodland echoes to his horn, 

As on the mountain cliff the hunter band 

Chase the fleet chamois o'er the unknown land; 

Or sadly silent, from some jutting steep, 

He throws his line into the gulfy deep. 

Where, in the wilderness grotesque and drear, 

The loud Arve stuns the eve's reposing ear ; 

Or, if his lost domestic joys arise, 

Once more the prattler its endearments tries — 

It lisps, "My father!" and as newly prest 

Its close embraces meet his lonely breast. 

His long-lost partner, too, at length restored. 

Leans on his arm, and decks the social board. 

Yet still, mysterious on his fever'd brain 

The deep impressions of his woes remain; [pale? 

He thinks she weeps. — " And why, my love, so 

What hidden grief could o'er thy peace prevail, 

Or is it fancy — yet thou dost but * * ;" 

And then he weeps, and weeps, he knows not why. 



Drear winter ! who dost knock 

So loud and angry on my cottage roof. 

In the loud night-storm wrapt, while drifting snows 

The cheerless waste invest, and cold, and wide, 



FRAGMENTS. 295 

Seen by the flitting star, the landscape gleams ; 

With no unholy awe I hear thy voice, 

As by my dying embers, safely housed, 

I, in deep silence, muse. Though I am lone. 

And my low chimney owns no cheering voice 

Of friendly converse ; yet not comfortless 

Is my long evening, nor devoid of thoughts 

To cheat the silent hours upon their way. 

There are, who in this dark and fearful night. 

Houseless, and cold of heart, are forced to bide 

These beating snows, and keen relentless winds — 

Wayfaring men, or wanderers whom no home 

Awaits, nor rest from travel, save the inn 

Where all the journiers of mortal life 

Lie down at last to sleep. Yet some there be 

Who merit not to suffer. — Infancy, 

And sinew-shrinking age, are not exempt 

From penury's severest, deadliest gripe. 

Oh ! it doth chill the eddying heart's blood to see 

The guileless cheek of infancy turn'd blue 

With the keen cold. — Lo, where the baby hangs 

On his wan parent's hand ; his shiv'ring skin 

Half bare, and opening to the biting gale. 

Poor shiverer, to his mother he upturns 

A meaning look in silence ! then he casts 

Askance, upon the howling waste before, 

A mournful glance upon the forward way — 

But all lies dreary, and cold as hope 

In his forsaken breast. 



296 H, K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Behold the shepherd boy, who home ward tends, 
Finish'd his daily labor. — O'er the path, 
Deep overhung with herbage, does he stroll 
With pace irregular : by fits he runs. 
Then sudden stops with vacant countenance. 
And picks the pungent herb, or on the stile 
Listlessly sits and twines the reedy whip. 
And carols blithe his short and simple song. 
Thrice happy idler ! — thou hast never known 
Refinement's piercing pang ; thy joys are small, 
Yet are they unahoy'd with bitter thought 
And after misery. — As I behold 
Thy placid, artless countenance, I feel 
Strange envy of thy state, and fain would change 
These short, uncommon hours of keener bliss 
For thy long day of equal happiness. 

Heaven grant no after trials may imprint 
Trouble's deep wrinkle on thine open face, [tread 
And cloud thy generous features. — May'st thou 
In the calm paths through which thy fathers trod. 
To their late graves of honorable rest : 
So will thy lot be happy. So the hour 
Of death come clad in loveliness and joy ; 
And as thou lay'st down thy blanched head 
Beneath the narrow mound, affection's hand 
Will bend the osier o'er thy peaceful grave. 
And bid the lily blossom on thy turf. 
But, oh ! may Heaven avert from thee the curse 
Of mad fanaticism : away, away ! — 
Let not the restless monster dare pollute 
The calm abodes of rural innocence ! 



FRAGMENTS. 297 

Oh ! if the wide contagion reach thy breast, 

Unhappy peasant ! peace will vanish thence, 

And raging turbulence will rack thy heart 

With feverish dismay : then discontent 

Will prey upon thy vitals, then will doubt 

And sad uncertainty in fierce array, 

With superstition's monstrous train, surround 

Thy dreadful death-bed ; and no soothing hand 

Will smooth the painful pillow, for the bonds 

Of tender amity are all consumed 

By the prevailing fire. They all are lost 

In one ungovernable, selfish flame. 

Where has this pestilence arisen ? — where 

The Hydra multitude of sister ills. 

Of infidelity, and open sin. 

Of disafliection, and repining gall ? 

Oh, ye revered, venerable band. 

Who wear religion's ephod, unto ye 

Belongs with wakeful vigilance to check 

The growing evil. In the vicious town 

Fearless, and fix'd, the monster stands secure ; 

But guard the rural shade ! let honest peace 

Yet hold her ancient seats, and still preserve 

The village groups in their primeval bliss. 

Such was, Piacidio, thy divine employ. 

Ere thou wert borne to some sublimer sphere 

By death's mild angel. 



Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise, 
Embower'd, remote, a lowly cottage lies : 



298 H. K. white's poems. 

Before the door a garden spreads, where blows 
Now wild, once cultivate, the brier rose ; [peer, 
Though choked with weeds, the lily there will 
And early primrose hail the nascent year; 
There to the walls did jess'mine wreaths attach, 
And many a sparrow t witter 'd in the thatch, 
While in the woods that wave their heads on high 
The stock-dove warbled murmuring harmony. 

There, buried in retirement, dwelt a sage, 
Whose reverend locks bespoke him far in age 
Silent he was, and solemn was his mien. 
And rarely on his cheek a smile was seen. 
The village gossips had full many a tale 
About the aged " hermit of the dale." 
Some call'd him wizard, some a holy seer, 
Though all beheld him with an equal fear, 
And many a stout heart had he put to flight, 
Met in the gloomy wood-walks late at night. 

Yet well I ween, the sire was good of heart, 
Nor would to aught one heedless pang impart ; 
His soul was gentle, but he'd known of woe. 
Had known the world, nor longer wish'd to know. 
Here, far retired from all its busy ways, 
He hoped to spend the remnant of his days ; 
And here, in peace, he till'd his little ground. 
And saw, unheeded, years revolving round. 
Fair was his daughter, as the blush of day, 
[n her alone his hopes and wishes lay : 
His only care, about her future life, [strife. 

When death should call him from the haunts of 



FRAGMENTS. 299 

Sweet was her temper, mild as summer skies 
Wlien o'er their azure no thin vapour flies: 
And but to see her aged father sad, 
No fear, no care, the gentle Fanny had. 
Still at her wheel, the live-long day she sung, 
Till with the sound the lonesome woodlands rung, 
And till, usurp'd his long unquestion'd sway, 
The solitary bittern wing'd its way, 
Indignant rose, on dismal pinions borne, 
To find, untrod by man, some waste forlorn. 
Where, unmolested, he might hourly wail. 
And with his screams still load the heavy gale. 

Once as I stray'd, at eve, the woods among, 
To pluck wild strawberries, — I heard her song ; 
And heard, enchanted, — oh ! it was so soft. 
So sweet, I thought the cherubim aloft 
Were quiring to the spheres. Now the full note 
Did on the downy wings of silence float 
Full on the ravish'd sense, then died away, 
Distantly on the ear, in sweet decay. 

Then, first I knew the cot ; the simple pair ; 
Though soon become a welcome inmate there : 
At eve, I still would fly to hear the lay. 
Which Fanny to her lute was wont to play ; 
Or with the Sire would sit and talk of war, 
For wars he'd seen, and bore full many a scar, 
And oft the plan of gallant siege he drew, 
And loved to teach me all the arts he knew. 



300 H. K. white's poems. 

TO A FRIEND. 

To you these pensive lines I fondly send, 
Far distant now, my brother, and my friend. 
If, 'mid the novel scene, thou yet art free 
To give one silent, museful hour to me. 
Turn from the world, and fancy, whisp'ring near, 
Thou hear'st the voice thou once didst love to hear 
Can time and space, howe'er with anguish fraught. 
Damp the warm heart, or chain the soaring thought? 
Or, when most dread, the nascent joy they blast. 
Chase from the mind the image of the past ? 
Ah, no ! when death has robb'd her hoard of bliss. 
What stays to soothe the widow's hours, but this? 
This cheers her dreams, and cheats the ling'ring 

time 
Till she shall reach ******* 



With slow step, along the desert sand, 
Where o'er the parching plains broods red dismay, 
The Arab chief leads on his ruthless band. 
And, lo ! a speck of dust is seen to play. 
On the remotest confines of the day. 
Arouse ! arouse ! fierce does the chieftain cry, 
Death calls ! the caravan is on its way ! 
The warrior shouts. ^ The Siroc hurries by, 
Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd his 
murderous eye. ' 

These lines might appear, by the metre, to have been intended 
for a stanza of the " Christiad," perhaps to have been intro 
duced as a simile ; but though the conception is striking, the 
composition is far more incorrect than that of tiaat fine fragment 



FRAGMENTS. 301 

Oh ! had the soul's deep silence power to speak ; 

Could the warm thought the bars of distance break ! 

Could the lone music to thine ear convey 

Each rising sigh, and all the heart can say ! 

Dear to my breast, beyond conception dear, 

Would the long solitude of night appear : 

Sweet would it be to hear the winds complain — 

To mark the heavings of the moonlight main ; 

Sweet to behold the silent hamlet lie, 
■yyi^j;]^^ Tt; « -;ii i^ * * 

But sweeter far ***** 
Rose not unshared, nor fell unmark'd by thee. 



The harp is still ! Weak though the spirit were 
That whisper'd in its rising harmonies ; 
Yet Mem'ry, with her sister, fond Regret, 
Loves to recall the wild and wandering airs 
That cheer'd the long-fled hours, when o'er the 

strings 
That spirit hover'd. Weak and though it were 
To pour the torrent of impetuous song, 
It was not weak to touch the sacred chords 
Of pity, or to summon with dark spell 
Of witching rhymes, the spirits of the deep 
Form'd to do Fancy's bidding ; and to fetch' 
Her perfumes from the morning star, or dye 
Her volant robes with the bright rainbow's hues. 



26 



303 H. K. white's poems. 

Or should the day be overcast, 
We'll linger till the shower be past ; 
Where the hawthorn's branches spread 
A fragrant covert o'er the head. 
And list the rain-drops beat the leaves, 
Or smoke upon the cottage eaves ; 
Or, silent dimpling on the stream, 
Convert to lead its silver gleam ; 
And we will muse on human life, 
And think, from all the storms of strife, 
How sweet to find a snug retreat 
Where we may hear the tempests beat. 
Secure and fearless, — and provide 
Repose for life's calm eventide. 



Mild Vesper! favorite of the Paphian Queen, 
Whose lucid lamp on evening's twiUght zone. 
Sheds a soft lustre o'er the gloom serene. 
Only by Scynthia's silver beam outshone : 
Thee I invoke to point my lonely way 
O'er these wild wastes, to v/here my lover bides, 
For thou alone canst lend thy friendly ray. 
Now the bright moon toward the ocean glides — 
No midnight murderer asks thy guilty aid. 
No nightly robber ***** 
I am alone, by silly love betray'd. 
To woo the star of Venus * * * 



FRAGMENTS. 303 

In every clime, from Lapland to Japan, [man. 
This truth's confess'd, — that man's worst foe is 
The rav'ning tribes, that crowd the sultry zone, 
Prey on all kinds and colors but their own. 
Lion with lion herds, and pard with pard. 
Instinct's first law, their covenant and guard. 
But man alone, the lord of ev'ry clime. 
Whose post is godlike, and whose pow'rs sublime, 
Man, at whose birth the Almighty hand stood still, 
Pleased with the last great effort of his will, 
Man, man alone, no tenant of the wood, 
Preys on his kind, and laps his brother's blood: 
His fellow leads where hidden pit-falls lie, 
And drinks with ecstacy his dying sigh. 



ODE TO LIBERTY. 

Hence to thy darkest shades, dire Slavery, hence ! 

Thine icy touch can freeze, 

Swift as the Polar breeze. 
The proud defying port of human sense. 

Hence to thine Indian cave, 
To where the tall canes whisper o'er thy rest, 

Like the murmuring wave 
Swept by the dank wing of the rapid west : 

And at the night's still noon, 
The lash'd Angolan, in his grated cell, 

Mix'd with the tiger's yell, 
Howls to the dull ear of the silent moon. 



304 H. K. white's poems. 

But come, thou goddess, blithe and free, 
Thou mountain-maid, sweet Liberty ! 
With buskin'd knee, and bosom bare, 
Thy tresses floating in the air ; 
Come, — and treading on thy feet, 
Independence let me meet, 
Thy giant mate, whose awful form 
Has often braved the bellowing storm, 
And heard its angry spirit shriek, 
Rear'd on some promontory's peak, 
Seen by the lonely fisher far, 
By the glimpse of flitting star. 

His awful bulk, in dusky shroud, 
Commixing with the pitchy cloud ; 
While at his feet the lightnings play. 
And the deep thunders die away. 
Goddess ! come, and let us sail 
On the fresh reviving gale ; 
O'er dewy lawns, and forests lone. 
Till lighting on some mountain stone, 
That scales the circumambient sky, 
We see a thousand nations lie, 
From Zembla's snows to Afric's heat, 
Prostrate beneath our frolic feet. 

From Italy's luxurious plains, 
Where everlasting summer reigns. 
Why, goddess, dost thou turn away ?' 
Didst thou never sojourn there ? 
Oh, yes, thou didst — ^but fallen is Rome ; 
The pilgrim weeps her silent doom, 



FRAGMENTS. 305 

As at midnight, murmuring low, 
Along the mouldering portico, 
He hears the desolate wind career, 
While the rank ivy whispers near. 

Ill-fated Gaul ! ambitious grasp 

Bids thee again in slavery gasp. 

Again the dungeon-walls resound 

The hopeless shriek, the groan profound : 

But, lo, in yonder happy skies, 

Helvetia's airy mountains rise. 

And, oh ! on her tall cliffs reclined. 

Gay Fancy, whispering to the mind : 

As the wild herdsman's call is heard, 

Tells me, that she, o'er all preferr'd, 

In every clime, in every zone. 

Is Liberty's divinest throne. 

Yet, whence that sigh? goddess ! say, 

Has the tyrant's thirsty sway 

Dared profane the sacred seat, 

Thy long high-favor'd, best retreat? 

It has ! it has ! away, away 

To where the green isles woo the day ! 

Where thou art still supreme, and where 

Thy Pseans fill the floating air. 



Who is it leads the planets on their dance — 
The mighty sisterhood ? who is it strikes 
The harp of universal harmony ? 



26 



306 H. K. white's poems. 

Hark ! 'tis the voice of planets on their dance, 

Led by the arch-contriver. Beautiful 

The harmony of order ! How they sing, 

The regulated orbs, upon their path 

Through the wide trackless ether ! sing as though 

A syren sat upon each glitt'ring gem, 

And made fair music — such as mortal hand 

Ne'er raised on the responding chords ; more like 

The mystic melody that oft the bard 

Hears in the strings of the suspended, harp, 

Touch'd by some unknown beings that reside 

In evening breezes, or, at dead of night. 

Wake in the long, shrill pauses of the wind. 

This is the music which, in ages hush'd. 

Ere the Assyrian quaff'd his cups of blood, 

Kept the lone Chald awake, when through the night 

He watch'd his herds. The solitary man. 

By frequent meditation, learnt to spell 

Yon sacred volume of high mystery. 

He could arrange the wandering passengers. 

From the pale star, first on the silent brow 

Of the meek-tressed Eve, to him who shines. 

Son of the morning, orient Lucifer; 

Sweet were to him, in that unletter'd age. 

The openings of wonder. — He could gaze 

Till his whole soul was fill'd with mystery, 

And every night-wind was a spirit's voice. 

And every far-off mist, a spirit's form : 

So with fables, and wild romantic dreams'. 

He mix'd his truth, and couch'd in symbols dark. 

Hence, blind idolatry arose, and men 

Knelt to the sun, or at the dead of night 



FRAGMENTS. 307 

Pour'd their orisons to the cloud-wrapt moon. 

Hence, also, after ages into stars 

Transform'd their heroes ; and the warlike chief, 

With fond eye fix'd on some resplendent gem, 

Held converse Avith the spirits of his sires : — 

With other eyes than these did Plato view 

The heavens, and, fill'd with reasonings sublime. 

Half-pierced,, at intervals, the mystery. 

Which with the gospel vanish'd, and made way 

For noon-day brightness. -« 5* * 



How beautiful upon the element 

The Egyptian moonlight sleeps ! 
The Arab on the bank hath pitch'd his tent ; 

The lightwave dances, sparkling, o'er the deeps; 
The tall reeds whisper in the gale. 
And o'er the distant tide moves slow the silent sail. 

Thou mighty Nile ! and thou receding main. 
How peacefully ye rest upon your shores. 
Tainted no more, as when from Cairo's towers, 
Roll'd the swoln corse, by plague ! the monster ! 
slain. 
Far as the eye can see around. 
Upon the solitude of waters wide, 
There is no sight, save of the restless tide — 
Save of the winds, and waves, there is no sound. 

Egyptia sleeps, her sons in silence sleep ! 
Ill-fated land, upon thy rest they come — 



308 H. K, white's poems. 

Th' invader, and his host. Behold the deep 
Bears on her farthest verge a dusky gloom — 
And now they rise, the masted forests rise, 

And gallants, through the foam, their way they 
make. 

Stern Genius of the Memphian shores, awake ! — 
The foeman in thy inmost harbor lies. 

And ruin o'er thy land with brooding pennon flies. 



Ghosts of the dead, in grim array, 

Surround the tyrant's nightly bed ! 
And in the still, distinctly say, 

I by thy treachery bled. 
And I, and I, ten thousands cry ; 

From Jafl'a's plains, from Egypt's sands, 
They come, they raise the chorus high, 

And whirl around in shrieking bands. 
Loud, and more loud, the clamors rise, 

"Lo! there the traitor ! murderer! lies." 
He murder'd me, he murder'd thee, 

And now his bed his rack shall be. 
As when a thousand torrents roar, 
Around his head their yells they pour. 
The sweat-drops start, convulsions hand 
Binds every nerve in iron band. 
'Tis done ! they fly, the clamors die. 

The moon is up, the night is calm, 
Man's busy broods in slumbers lie ; 

But horrors still the tyrant's soul alarm, 



FRAGMENTS. 309 

And ever and anon, serenely clear, 
Have mercy, mercy, heaven ! strikes on dull mid- 
night's ear. 



ODE 

ON THE DEATH OP THE DUKE d'eNGHIEN. 

What means yon trampling ! what that light 

That glimmers in the inmost wood ; 
As though beneath the felon night, 

It mark'd some deed of blood ; 
Behold yon figures, dim descried 
In dark array ; they speechless glide. 
The forest moans ; the raven's scream 
Swells slowly o'er the moated stream, 
As from the castle's topmost tower. 

It chants its boding song alone : 
A song, that at this awful hour 

Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone ; 
Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear 
Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear. 

And, hark, that loud report ! 'tis done ; 

There's murder couch'd in yonder gloom ; 
'Tis done, 'tis done ! the prize is won, 

Another rival meets his doom. 
The tyrant smiles, — with fell delight 
He dwells upon the * * * * * 
The tyrant smiles ; from terror freed, 
Exulting in the foul misdeed. 



310 H. K, white's poems. 

And sternly in his secret breast 

Marks out the victims next to fall. 

His purpose fix'd ; their moments fly no more, 

He points, — the poinard knows its own ; 
Unseen it strikes, — unseen they die, [groan. 
Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the 
But justice yet shall lift her arm on high, 
And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from 
the sky. 



PSALM XXII. 

My God, my God, oh, why dost thou forsake me ? 

Why art thou distant in the hour of fear ? 
To thee, my wonted help, I still betake me, 

To thee I clamor, but thou dost not hear. 

The beam of morning witnesses my sighing, 
The lonely night-hour views me weep in vain, 

Yet thou art holy, and, on thee relying, 

Our fathers were released from grief and pain. 

To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their 
wailing, 

On thee they trusted, and their trust was sure ; 
But I, poor, lost, and wretched son of failing, 

I, without hope, must scorn and hate endure. 

Me they revile ; with many ills molested, 
They bid me seek of thee, Lord, redress : 



FRAGMENTS. 311 

On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested, 
Let God reheve him in his deep distress. 

To me, Ahnighty ! in thy mercy shining, 

Life's darkand dangerous portals thou didst ope ; 

And softly on my mother's lap reclining, [hope. 
Breathed through my breast the lively soul of 

Even from the womb, thou art my God, my Father ! 

Aid me, now trouble weighs me to the ground: 
Me heavy ills have worn, and, faint and feeble, 

The bulls of Bashan have beset me round. 

My heart is melted and my soul is weary, [feet! 

The wicked ones have pierced my hands and 
Lord, let thy influence cheer my bosom dreary : 

My help ! my strength ! let me thy presence 
greet. 

Save me ! oh, save me ! from the sword dividing, 
Give me my darling from the jaws of death ! 

Thee will I praise, and, in thy name confiding, 
Proclaim thy mercies Avith my latest breath. 



'12 H. K. white's poems. 



THE EVE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 
1. 

Silence of death — portentous calm, 

Those airy forms that yonder fly, 
Denote that your void fore-runs a storm, 

That the hour of fate is nigh. 
I see, I see, on the dim mist borne. 

The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
I see, I see, that ere the morn. 

His spear will forsake its hated rest. 
And the widow 'd wife of Larrendill will beat her 
naked breast. 

II. 

O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, 

No softly rufiiing zephyrs fly ; 
But Nature sleeps a deathless sleep, 

For the hour of battle is nigh. 
Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak. 

But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 

On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
I know, I know what this silence means ; 

I know what the raven saith- — 



THANATOS. 



313 



Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp, 
For this is the eve of death. 

III. 

Behold, how along the twilight air 

The shades of our fathers glide ! 
There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd hair, 

And Colma with gray side. 
No gale around its coolness flings. 

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
And, hark ! how the harp's unvisited strings 

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering breeze ! 
'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 

He will never set more to the brave ; 
Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — 

For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



THANATOS. 

Oh ! who would cherish life. 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay. 

Love this rude world of strife. 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest day ; 
And where, 'neath outward smiles, 
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 
Where pit-falls lie in every flowery way. 

And sirens lure the wanderer to their wiles ! 
Hateful it is to me. 

Its riotous railings and revengeful strife ; 
27 



314 H. K. white's poems. 

I'm tired with all its screams and brutal shouts 
Dinning the ear ; — away — away with life ! 
And welcome, oh ! thou silent maid, 
Who in some foggy vault art laid. 
Where never day -light's dazzling ray 
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; [sleep, 
And there amid unwholesome damps dost 
In such forgetful slumbers deep. 
That all thy senses stupefied. 
Are to marble petrified. 
Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 
Sweet are thy calms to misery. 
Poppies I will ask no more. 
Nor the fatal hellebore ; 
Death is the best, the only cure, 
His are slumbers ever sure. 
Lay me in the Gothic tomb. 
In whose solemn fretted gloom 
I may lie in mouldering state. 
With all the grandeur of the great : 
Over me, magnificent. 
Carve a stately monument : 
Then thereon my statue lay, 
With hands in attitude to pray, 
And angels serve to hold my head, 
Weeping o'er the father dead. 
Duly too at close of day. 
Let the pealing organ play ; 
And while the harmonious thunders roll, 
. Chant a vesper to my soul : 
Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 
Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 



ATHANATOS. 315 



ATHANATOS. 

Away with death— away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chilling damps, 

Impervious to the day, 
Where Nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave, 
And yield with joy the vital fire, 
To moulder in the grave ! 
Yet mortal life is sad. 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky ; 

And sorrows ever rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry — 
Away with mortal life ! 
But, hail the calm reality. 
The seraph Immortality ! 
Hail the Heavenly bowers of peace ! 
Where all the storms of passion cease. 
Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er, 
The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 
But wears the eternal smile of joy. 
Tasting bliss without alloy. 
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 
Where no passing tempest lowers ; 
But the azure heavens display 
The everlasting smile of day ; 
Where the choral seraph choir. 
Strike to praise the harmonious lyre | 



316 H. K. white's poems. 

And the spirit sinks to ease, 

LuU'd by distant symphonies. 

Oh ! to think of meeting tliere 

The friends whose graves received our tear, 

The daugiiter loved, the wife adored. 

To our widow'd arms restored ; 

And all the joys which death did sever, 

Given to us again for ever ! 

Who would cling to wretched life. 

And hug the poison'd thorn of strife ; 

Who would not long from earth to fly, 

A sluggish senseless lump to lie. 

When the glorious prospect lies 

Full before his raptured eyes ? 



MUSIC. 

Written between the Ages of Fourteen and Fifteen, with 
a few subsequent verbal Alterations. 

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, 

Can still each mental storm, each tumult calm, 

Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch reclined. 
And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage disarm. 

At her command the various passions lie ; 

She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace ; 
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy, [cease. 

And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour 

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire 
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm raise ; 



MUSIC. 817 

Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire, 

Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 

Far better she when with her soothing lyre 

She charms the falchion from the savage grasp, 
And melting into pity vengeful Ire, 
, Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp. 

With her in pensive mood I long to roam. 

At midnight's hour, or evening's calm decline, 

And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's foam, 
In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline. 

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, 
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd. 

With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies. 
And pleased Attention claims the passive mind. 

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, 
Then burst majestic in the varied swell ; 

Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre. 
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 

Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ye give, [soul, 
That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on the 

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live 
For ever 'neath your un defiled control. 

Oh ! surely melody from heaven was sent. 

To cheer the soul when tired with human strife, 

To soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent. 
And soften down the rugged road of life. 

27* 



318 H. K. white's poems. 



ON 



BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL 



ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. 



WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 



The morning sun's enchanting rays 
Now call forth every songster's praise ; 
Now the lark, with upward flight, 
Gayly ushers in the light ; 
While wildly warbling from each tree, 
The birds sing songs to Liberty. 

But for me no songster sings, 
For me no joyous lark up-springs ; 
For I, confined in gloomy school, 
Must own the pedant's iron rule. 
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers, 
In durance vile must pass the hours ; 
Tliere con the scholiast's dreary lines. 
Where no bright ray of genius shines. 
And close to rugged learning cling, 
While laughs around the jocund spring. 

How gladly would my soul forego 
All that arithmeticians know, 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 319 

Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, 
Or all that industry can reach, 
To taste each morn of all the joys 
That with the laughing sun arise : 
And unconstrain'd to rove along 
The bushy brakes and glens among ; 
And woo the muse's gentle power. 
In unfrequented rural bower ! 
But, ah ! such heaven-approaching joys 
Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
Still will they cheat in vision fine. 
Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh, that I were the little wren 
That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 
Oh, far away I then would rove, 
To some secluded bushy grove j 
There hop and sing with careless glee. 
Hop and sing at liberty ; 
And till death should stop my lays. 
Far from men would spend my days. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys. 
The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; 
And I will ne'er forsake thee. — Men may rave, 
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
My every thought down to the desk, and spen4 
The morning of my life in adding figures 



220 H. K. white's poems. 

With accurate monotony : that so 
The good thmgs of the world may be my lot. 
And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : 
But, oh ! I was not made for money-getting ; 
For me no much-respected plum awaits, 
Nor civic lionour, envied, — For as still 
I tried to cast with school dexterity 
The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 
Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, 
Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen 
Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as I pictured, 
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent 
I erewhile wander'd with my early friends 
In social intercourse. And then I'd think 
How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 
One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe ; 
They were set down with sober steadiness, 
Each to his occupation. I alone, 
A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 
Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering 
With every wind to every point o' th' compass. 
Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge 
In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 
The busy bustling crowds could meditate. 
And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away 
Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 
Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth 
I woo'd thy heavenly influence ! I would walk 
A weary way when all my toils were done, 
To lay myself at night in some lone wood, 
And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. 
Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 321 

To memory doubly dear ; for growing years 

Had not then taught me man was made to mourn ; 

And a short hour of sohtary pleasure, 

Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense 

For all the hateful bustles of the day. 

My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, 

And soon the marks of care were worn away, 

While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, 

Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 

But it has now assum'd its character ; 

Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone. 

Like the firm oak, would sooner break than bend. 

Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love 

To indulge thy solemn musings ; still the same 

With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 

In thee alone delighting. Why along 

The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, 

When, with an easy competence content, 

I can alone be happy ; where with thee 

I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, 

And loose the wings of Fancy ? — Thus alone 

Can I partake of happiness on earth ; 

And to be happy here is man's chief end. 

For to be happy he must needs be good. 



322 H. K. white's poems. 



ODE, 



TO THE HARVEST MOON. 



Cum ruit imbriferum ver ; 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent: 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon of Harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labour's child. 
Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, 
Where Innocence and Peace reside ; 
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating song« 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove. 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky. 
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray. 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy way. 

Pleasing 'tis, oh ! modest Moon ! 
Now the Night is at her noon, 



TO THE HARVEST MOON. S23 

'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, 
Ripen'd by the summer's heat ; 
Picturing all the rustic's joy 
When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon, 

Oh, modest Moon ! 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road. 

To see the load. 
The last dear load of harvest-?iome. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains, 

Stern despoilers of the plains. 

Hence away, the season flee. 

Foes to light-heart jollity : 

May no winds careering high. 

Drive the clouds along the sky. 
But may all nature smile with aspect boon. 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, oh, 
Harvest Moon ! 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, 
The husbandman, with sleep-seai'd eyes ; 
He dreams of crowded barns, and round 
The yard he hears the flail resound ; 
Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 
His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the Winds ! oh, hear his humble pray'r, 
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy blus- 
tering whirlwind spare. 



324 H. K. white's poems. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo : 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

While feverish dreams surround your head ; 

I will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest shade, 

Wrapp'd in Contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes. 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune, 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 



SONG. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, 

Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
My love is asleep. 
He lies by the deep. 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

n. 

I have cover'd him with rushes, 
Water-flags, and branches dry. 



SONG. 325 

Edwy, long have been thy slumbers j 
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 

My love is asleep, 

He lies by the deep. 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

HI. 

Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 

Fastly closed is his eye ; 
Paler is his cheek, and chiller 
Than the icy moon on high. 
Alas ! he is dead. 
He has chose his death-bed 
All along where the salt waves sigh, 

IV. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 

Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
No, my love, thou bid'st me die. 
Thou bid'st me seek 
Thy death-bed bleak 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

V. 

I will gently kiss thy cold lips. 

On thy breast I'll lay my head. 
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, 
And our shroud the waters spread ; 
The moon will smile sweet, 
And the wild wave will beat, 
Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 
28 



326 H. K. white's poems. 



THE 



SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S 
SONG 

TO THE NIGHT. 

Thott, spirit of the spangled night ! 
I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds. 
The distant main is moaning low 
Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
A melancholy song ! 

Sweet is the scented gale of morn, 
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
But sweeter far the solemn calm. 

That marks thy mournful reign. 

I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
And never human voice have heard ; 
I've pass'd here many a lonely year 
A solitary man. 

And I have linger'd in the shade, 
From sultry noon's hot beam ; and I 



THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG. 327 

Have knelt before my wicker door, 
To sing my evening song. 

And I have hail'd the gray morn high, 
On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
And tried to tune my little reed 
To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed, 
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet. 
As when upon the ocean shore 

I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 

The day-spring brings not joy to me. 
The moon it whispers not of peace ; 
But oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
My woes are mix'd with joy. 

And then I talk, and often think 
JErial voices answer me ; 
And oh ! I am not then alone — 
A solitary man. 

And when the blustering winter winds 
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
I lay me on my lonely mat, 

And pleasant are my dreams. 

And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
And Fancy gives me back my child ; ' 
She gives me back my little home. 
And all its placid joys. 



H. K. WHITE S POEMS. 

Then hateful is the morning hour, 
That calls me from the dream of bliss, 
To find myself still lone, and hear 

The same dull sounds again. 

The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, 
The whispering of the boding trees. 
The brook's eternal flow, and oft 

The Condor's hollow scream. 



SONNET. 

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile. 

Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 
But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile. 

Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. 
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string — 

Raise the soft music of the warbling wire. 
While in my ears the howls of furies ring 

And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? [cave 
Away with thoughts like these — To some lone 

Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps 
the wave. 
Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 

I'll sit remote from worldlv noise, and, muse 

Till through my sou. snail Peace her balm infuse^ 
And whispei sounds ot comfort in mine ear. 



MT OWN CHARACTER. 329 

MY OWN CHARACTER. 

Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady. 



Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 

To give you a sketch — ay, a sketch of myself. 

'Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess. 

And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 

But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 

I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 

For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her. 

She wont be a cynical father confessor. 

Come, come, 'twill not do ! put that purling brow 

down ; 
You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. 
Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, 
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction j 
Religious — Deistic — now loyal and warm ; 
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform : 
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus ; 
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus ; [rattle ; 
Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a 
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle ; 
Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay. 
To all points of the conpass I veer in a day. 

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child. 
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild : 

28* 



SSO H. E. white's poems. 

As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute ; 
Then as for poUteness — oh ! dear — I'm a brute ! 
I show no respect where I never can feel it ; 
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it ; 
And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, 
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel 
That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like 

steel. 
It can love (can it not ?) — it can hate, I am sure ; 
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be 

poor. 
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds ; 
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds : 
And though far from faultless, or even so-so, 
I think it may pass as our worldly things go. 

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss | 
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss ! 
I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say. 
But in process of time I may get the wrong way. 
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, 
And yet can't withstand, you knoio lohose fasci- 
nation. 
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices, 
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices ; 
So as for the good, why, if I possess it, 
I am not yet learned enough to express it. 

You yourself must examine the lovelier side, 
And after your every art you have tried, 



ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 881 

Whatever my faults, I may ventm-e to say, 

Hypocrisy never will come in your way. 

I am upright, I hope ; I am downright, I'm clear ! 

And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere ; 

And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 

*Tis now when I swear * * 



ODE 

ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 

1. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 

Beneath thy shrine, [twine. 

And round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful cypress 

2. 

Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread, ' 
Yet meditation, in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, [here. 

Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid 



332 H. K. white's poems. 

3. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
For thou severe were sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world : 
To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 

4. 

What is this passing s^cene ? 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, 
And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 

5. 

Oh, what is Beauty's power? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break, 
To tell how soft how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies ? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her 
pall. 



ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 333 



The most beloved on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade. 
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid. 



Then since this world is vain, 

And volatile, and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
Where dust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat ? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing 
heart be still ? 

8. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
I bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say. My God, thy will be done ! 



334 H. K. white's poems. 

On another paper are a few lines, written pro- 
bably in the freshness of his disappointment. 

I DREAM no more — The vision flies away, 

And Disappointment * * * * 

There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 

My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. 

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 

Now welcome sorrow, jand now welcome wo. 

Plunge me in glooms * * « * 



His health soon sunk under these habits; he 
became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp 
fit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the 
following lines in the church-yard of his favourite 
village. 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-TARD, 
ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Here would I wish to sleep. — This is the spot 
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in ; 
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, 
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred. 
It is a lovely spot ! the sultry sun, 



LINES. 335 

From his meridian height, endeavours vainly 
To pierce the shadowy fohage, while the zephyr 
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance, did Gray 
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd. 

Come, I will sit me down and meditate, 

For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; 

And here I may repose in silent ease ; 

And thus, perchance, when 1 ife 's sad j ourney 's 'er, 

My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find 

The haven of its rest — beneath this sod 

Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth- 
worm 
Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 
Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown. 
Swathed down withoziers, just as sleep the cottiers. 
Yet may not undistinguish' d be my grave ; 
But there at eve may some congenial soul 
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear. 
The good man's benison — no more I ask. 
And, oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 
From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, 
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot. 
The earth,) then will I cast a glance below, 
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm ; 
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer. 
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine 



336 H. K. white's poems. 

In this low-thoughted world of darkling wo, 
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies. 

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body. 
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery. 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! 
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
His narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell. 
En dear 'd to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial-place. 
To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton, 
And yield its narrow house another tenant. 
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, 
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp. 
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
No, I will lay me in the village ground ; 
There are the dead respected. The poor hind, 
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade 
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 
The labourer, returning from his toil. 
Here stay his steps, and call his children round, 
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes. 
And, in his rustic manner, moralize. 
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken. 
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner. 
And all the honours which he paid the grave. 
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries. 
Bestrew 'd with all the emblems of mortality. 
Are not protected from the drunken insolence 



H. K. white's poems. 337 

Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 

Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close ! 

Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones 

May lie — or in the city's crowded bomids. 

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters, 

Or left a prey on some deserted shore 

To the rapacious cormorant, — yet still, 

(For why should sober reason cast away [spirit 

A thought which soothes the soul ?) — ^yet still my 

Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 

In solemn rumination ; and will smile 

With joy that I have got my long'd release. 



29 



FRAGMENTS. 



THESE FRAGMENTS ARE HENRY S LATEST COM- 
POSITIONS ; AND WERE, FOR THE MOST PART, WRIT- 
TEN UPON THE PACK OF HIS MATHEMATICAL PAPERS, 
DURING THE FEW MOMENTS OF THE LAST YEAR OF 
HIS LIFE, IN WHICH HE SUFFERED HIMSELF TO 
FOLLOW THE IMPULSE OF HIS GENIUS. 



THE CHRISTIAD, 

A DIVINE POEM. 
BOOK I. 

I. 

I SING the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel choirs, 
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, 

Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires 

Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, 
Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings deep, 

Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 
Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, 
338 



THE CHRISTIAD. 339 

Awaice my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious 
theme. 

II. 

Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine humbled 

state, [ground ! 

Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the 

Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are desolate ! 

Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly 

sound, 

And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, 

There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and aghast 

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, 

Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast 

Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. 

III. 

It is for this, proud Solyma ! thy towers 

Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this forlorn 
Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers. 
While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn. 
That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born ; 
And, with most bitter persecuting ire, 

Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn 
Kose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the fire 
That came to light the world, in one great flash 
expire. 

IV. 

Oh ! for a pencil dipp'd in living light. 
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! 



340 H. K. white's poems. 

Oh ! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might, 
To hymn the Saviom''s praise from shore to 

shore ; 
While seraph hosts the lofty psean pour, 
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim ! 

May a frail mortal dare the theme explore ? 
May he to human ears his weak song frame ? 
Oh ! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name ? 



Spirits of pity ! mild Crusaders, come ! 

Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float, 
And give him eloquence who else were dumb. 

And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 

And thou, Urania ! who dost still devote 
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine. 

Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote. 
Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine. 
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine. 

VI. 

When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 
Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned there. 

The Son of God confess'd, in splendor shone ; 
Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air. 
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 



Fled the stern king of Hell — and with the 
glare 
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, [head. 
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his 



THE CHRISTIAD. 341 

VII. 

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late 

The rude Massagetse adored, he bent 
His northering course, while round, in dusky- 
state, [augment ; 
The assembling fiends their summon'd troops 
Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they 
went. 
While, as they pass'd to regions more severe. 
The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud 
lament 
The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear. 
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 

VIII. 

Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, 
Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes 
around. 
There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude. 
Form a gigantic hall, where never sound 
Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound 
The smoke-frost mutter'd : there drear Cold for 
aye [mound, 

Thrones him, — and, fix'd on his primasval 
Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 
Stalks like some wo-struck man along the desert 
way. 

IX. 

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, 

No sweet remain of life encheers the sight ; 
29* 



342 H. K. white's poems. 

The dancing heart's blood in an instant there 
Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day and 
night [light,) 

(Sweet interchange, which makes our labours 
Are there unknown ; while in the summer skies 
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly 
height, 
Nor ever sets till from the scene she flies, 
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year 
to rise. 

X. 

'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning 
lake, 

Satan had fix'd their next consistory, 
When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 

Messiah's constancy, — and thus to free 

The powers of darkness from the dread decree 
Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent 

The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see 
The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, 
Discern the colours clear of every dark event. 

XI. 

Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight, 
And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall. 

Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light 
Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's 

call. 
He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen fell, 

Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the sound 



THE CHRISTIAD. 343 

Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er the 
hall, 
Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, 
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they sur- 
round. 

XII. 

High on a solium of the solid wave, [frost, 
Prank'd with rude shapes by the fantastic 
He stood in silence ; — now keen thoughts en- 
grave 
Dark figures on his front ; and, tempest-toss'd, 
He fears to say that every hope is lost. 
Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute : 

So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, 
Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, 
Sings to the whisperingwaves the prelude to dis- 
pute. 

XIII. 

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan 

The arch-fiend glanced, as by the Boreal blaze 
Their downcast brows were seen, and thus be- 
gan [days 
His fierce harangue : — " Spirits ! our better 
Are now elapsed ; Moloch and Belial's praise 
Shall sound no more in groves by myriads trod. 
Lo! the light breaks! — The astonished na- 
tions gaze ! 
For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
For, spirits, this is He, — this is the Son of God. 



344 H. K. white's poems. 

XIV. 

What then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to fear ? 

Shall he who shook the pillars of God's reign 

Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ? 

Madness ! The very thought would make 

me fain 
To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, 
And hurl them at their Maker ! — Fix'd as fate 
I am his Foe ! — Yea, though his pride should 
deign 
To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, 
Still would I burn with fix'd, unalterable hate. 

XV. 

Now hear the issue of my curs'd emprize, 

When from our last sad synod I took flight, 
Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep-laid 
disguise, 
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
His own self-condemnation ; in the plight 
Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 

Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his sight, 
And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to guess 
What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn 
recess. 

XVI. 

Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 
My lowly speech: — 'Good Sir, what leads 
this way [blamed 

Your wandering steps ? must hapless chance be 



THE CHRISTIAD. 345 

That you so far from haunt of mortals stray ? 

Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, 

Nor trace of man have seen ; but how ! me- 

thought [ray 

Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy 

I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 

That he to fallen man the saving promise brought.' 

XVII. 

« I am that man,' said Jesus, ' I am He ! [feet 
But truce to questions — Canst thou point my 

To some low hut, if haply such there be 
In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 
With homely greeting, and may sit and eat ; 

For forty days I have tarried fasting here, 
Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 

And now I hunger ; and my fainting ear 
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains gush- 
ing near.' 

XVHI. 

Then thus I answer'd wily : — * If, indeed, 

Son of our God thou be'st, what need to seek 
For food from men ? — Lo ! on these flint 
stones feed. 
Bid them be bread ! Open thy lips and speak. 
And hving rills from yon parch'd rock will 
break.' 
Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 

Fix'd on my face; — the blood forsook my 
cheek, 



346 H. K. white's poems. 

I could not bear his gaze ; — ^my mask slipp'd by j 
I would have sliunn'd his look, but had not power 

to fly. 

XIX. 

Then he rebuked me with the holy word — 
Accursed sounds ! but now my native pride 

Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, 
I bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
Up to the summit, where extending wide 

Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, [cried. 
Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were des- 

And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, 
Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated swains. 

XX. 

' Behold,' I cried, ' these glories ! scenes divine ! 

Thou whose sad prime in pining want decays 
And these, rapture ! these shall all be thine, 

If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. 

Hath he not given to indigence thy days ? 
Is not thy portion peril here and pain ? [ways ! 

Oh ! leave his temples, shun his wounding 
Seize the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain. 
Kneel, kneel, thou man of wo, and peace and 
splendor gain.' 

XXI. 

* Is it not written,' sternly he replied, [he spake, 
' Tempt not the Lord thy God !' Frowning 
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, 



THE CHRISTIAD. 347 

Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison brake, 
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake, 
The sidelong volley met my swift career, 
And smote me earthward. — Jove himself 
might quake 
At such a fall ; my sinews crack'd, and near, 
Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in mine 
ear. 

XXII. 

Senseless and stunn'd I lay ; till, casting round 
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 

Borne on a car of roses to the ground, 
By volant angels ; and as sailing slow 
He sunk, the hoary battlement below. 

While on the tall spire slept the slant sunbeam, 
Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the flow 

Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft 

seem, [dream. 

On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shepherd's 

XXIII. 

I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my strength ; 
I smote the ether with my iron wing, 

And left the accursed scene. — Arrived at length 
In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I bring 
The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 

Thrice vanquish'd, baffled, smitten, and dis- 
may'd ! 
shame ! Is this the hero who could fling 
Defiance at his Maker, while array 'd, [play'd' 
High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners 



348 H. K. white's poems. 

XXIV. 

Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions triumph 
long; 
Hell yet shall have revenge. — glorious sight, 
Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 
I see wild agony's lean finger Avrite 
Sad figures on his forehead ! — Keenly bright 
Revenge's flambeau burns ! Now in his eyes 

Stand the hot tears, — immantled in the night, 
Lo ! he retires to mourn ! — I hear his cries ! 
He faints — he falls — and lo ! 'tis true, ye powers, 
he dies." 

XXV. 

Thus spake the chieftain, — and as if he view'd 
The scene he pictured, with his foot advanced 
And chest inflated, motionless he stood. 
While under his uplifted shield he glanced, 
With straining eye-ball fix'd, like one en- 
tranced. 
On viewless air ; — thither the dark platoon 
Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when 
there danced 
The northern flash, or fiend late fled from noon, 
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence crept stilly through the ranks. — The 
breeze 
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands. 
When all the midnight gasping from the seas 



THE CHRISTIAD. 349 

Break boding sobs, and to his sight expands 
High on the shrouds the spirit that commands 
The ocean-farer's life ; so stiff — so sear 

Stood each dark power ; — while through their 
numerous bands 
Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and fear 
Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge 
appear. 

XXVII. 

One there was there, whose loud defying tongue 
Nor hope nor fear had silenced, but the swell 

Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 

His passion mock'd, and long he strove to tell 
His labouring ire ; still syllable none fell 

From his pale quivering lip, but died away 
For very fury ; from each hollow cell 

Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, 
And ***** 

XXVHI. 

"This comes," at length burst from the furious 
chief, 
" This comes of distant counsels ! Here behold 
The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold, 
To soothe the powers that warr'd with 
Heaven of old ! 
wise ! potent ! sagacious snare ! 

And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the bold^ 
30 



350 H. K. white's poems. 

There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the air. 
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants her 
standard there." 

XXIX. 

Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye 

Full on the speaker ; dark it was and stern ; 

He wrapp'd his black vest round him gloomily, 

And stood like one whom weightiest thoughts 

concern. 

Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again to turn 

His soul to rage. "Behold, behold," he cried, 

" The lord of Hell, who bade these legions 

spurn 

Almighty rule — behold he lays aside [defied." 

The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by man 

XXX. 

Thus ended Moloch, and his [burning] tongue 
Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its 
heat 
In slaughter. So, his native wilds among. 
The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his seat, 
Press'd on the sands, he marks the traveller's 
feet. 
Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward 
the seat 
Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary horde. 



THE CHRISTIAD. 351 

« Ye powers of Hell, T am no coward. I proved 
this of old : who led your forces against the armies 
of Jehovah ? Who coped with Ithuriel and the 
thunders of the Almighty ? Who, when stunned 
and confused ye lay on the burning lake, who first 
awoke, and collected your scattered powers ? And 
who led you across the unfathomable abyss to this 
delightful world, and established that reign here 
which now totters to its base ? How, therefore, 
dares yon treacherous fiend t(ji cast a stain on Sa- 
tan's bravery ? he who preys only on the defence- 
less — who sucks the blood of infants, and delights 
only in acts of ignoble cruelty and unequal con- 
tention. Away with the boaster who never joins 
in action, but, like a cormorant, hovers over the 
field, to feed upon the wounded, and overwhelm 
the dying. True bravery is as remote from rash- 
ness as from hesitation ; let us counsel coolly, but 
let us execute our counselled purposes determi- 
nately. In power we have learned, by that ex- 
periment which lost us Heaven, that we are in- 
ferior to the Thunder-bearer: — In subtlety — in 
subtlety alone we are his equals. Open war is 
impossible. 



Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through 
the race 

Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall. 
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 

Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 



352 H. K. white's poems. 

Of vengeance wrings within me ! Warriors 
all, 
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. 
Away with coward wiles ! — Death's coal- 
black pall 
Be now our standard ! — Be our' torch the glare 
Of cities fired ! our fifes, the shrieks that fill the 
air!" 

Him answering r?)se Mecashpim, who of old, 
Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, [told 

Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms un- 
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, 
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves, 

And sits and mourns like some white-robed sire, 
Where stood his temple, and where fragrant 
cloves 

And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre, 
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. 

He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his breast, 
And sighing — his papyrus scarf survey'd. 

Woven with dark characters ; then thus address'd 
The troubled council. 



I. 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 

With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 



THE CHRISTIAD. 353 

The lyre which I in early days have strung j 
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 
On the dark cypress ! and the strings which 
rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are 
j heard no more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again ? 

Shall I no more re-animate the lay ? 
Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men. 

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray. 

One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way. 
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I 
am free. 

» » » • » 

* » » » * 

30* 



FRAGMENTS. 



I. 

Saw'st thou that Ught ? exclaim'd the youth, and 

paused : 
Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the stream 
That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. 
Again, more Hght it gleam'd, — or does some sprite 
Dehide mine eyes with shapes of wood and streams, 
And lamp far-beaming thro ugh the thicket's gloom. 
As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice 
Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness. 
Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? 
No sprite deludes mine eyes, — the beam now glows 
With steady lustre. — Can it be the moon, 
Who, hidden long by the invidious veil [woods ? 
That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the 
No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea 
Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, 
She has been sleeping with Endymion. 



II. 

The pious man, 
In this bad world, when mists and couchant storms 
Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith 

355 



356 H. K. white's poems. 

Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields 
Of ether, where the day is never veil'd 
With intervening vapours ; and looks down 
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face 
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkness all ; 
But on whose billowy back, from man conceal'd, 
The glaring sunbeam plays. 



III. 

Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, 
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, 
And from his tower of mist, 
Night's watchman hurries down. 



IV. 

There was a little bird upon that pile ■ 

It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle. 

And made sweet melody. 

The song was soft, yet cheerful and most clear, 

For other note none swell'd the air but his. 

It seem'd as if the little chorister, 

Sole tenant of the melancholy pile. 

Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, 

Yet withal cheerful. — I have heard the note 

Echoing so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, 

Much musing — 



FRAGMENTS. 357 

V. 

Pale art thou, my lamp, and faint 

Thy melancholy ray : 
When the still night's unclouded saint 

Is walking on her way. 
Through my lattice leaf embower'd, 
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, 
And o'er my silent sacred room, 
Casts a checker'd twilight gloom ; 
I throw aside the learned sheet, 

1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sweet. 

Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 
Or why am I so frail ? 

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me. Moon, 

And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards ! 
Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 
Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
From the rude watch-tower,o'er the Atlantic wave. 



VI. 

Give me music — for my soul doth famt ; 

I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 
Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint. 

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 



358 H. K. white's poems. 

Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 
Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 

When all is still ; and now it grows more strong, 
As when the choral train their dirges weave, 

Mellow and many -voiced ; where every close, 

O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves reflows. 

Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars 

Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behindo 

Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores. 
And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. 

Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is freed. 

Far from its clayey cell it springs, — 



VII. 

Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? 
Ah ! who can give to others' woes his sigh, 

Secure his own will never need it too ? 

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, 
Soon will they learn to scan with thoughtful 

eye 
The illusive past and dark futurity ; 

Soon will they know — 



FRAGMENTS. 359 



VIII. 



And must thou go, and must we part ? 

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit ; 
The pang that rends in twain my heart. 

Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it ? 

Thy sex is fickle, — when away, 

Some happier youth may win thy— 



IX. 



SONNET. 

When I sit musing on the checker'd past, 
(A term much darken'd with untimely woes,) 
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows 
The tear, though half disown'd ; — and binding fast 
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, [breast 
When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my 
Received from her this wearying, lingering smart, 
Yet, ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 

Though wrong'd, I love her — yet in anger love, 
For she was most unworthy. — Then I prove 
Vindictive joy ; and on my stern front gleams, 
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
The native pride of my much injured heart. 



3G0 H. K. white's poems. 

X. 
When high romance o'er every wood and stream 

Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, [dream, 
Spell-struck, and fiU'd with many a wondering 

First m the groves I woke the pensive lyre, 
All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 

The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge, 
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke, 

To their light morrice by the restless surge. 
Now to my sober'd thought with life's false smiles, 

Too much * * 
The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles. 

And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 



XI. 

Hush'd is the lyre — the hand that swept 
The low and pensive wires, 
Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. 

Yes— it is still — the lyre is still ; 

The spirit which its slumbers broke [woke 

Hath pass'd away, — and that weak hand that 
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 
Yet I would press you to my lips once more. 

Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy ; 
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour, 

Mix'd with decaying odours : for to me 
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy. 

As in the wood-paths of my native — 



FRAGMENTS. 36 1 



XII. 

Once more, and yet once more, 

I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay j 
I heard the waters roar, 

1 heard the flood of ages pass away. 
thou, stern sphit, who dost dwell 

In thine eternal cell. 
Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 

I saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete, 

Thou spakest, and at thy feet 
The universe gave way. 



31 



363 TIME. 



TIME, 

A POEM. 

This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clif- 
ton Grove, or shortly afterwards. Henry never laid aside 

. the intention of completing- it, and some of the detached 
parts were among his latest productions. 

Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 
Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 
Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 
Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance ; 
Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, 
And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 
Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower, where thy lamp, 
Faint-blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, 
And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 
Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 
The vast effect to its superior source, — 
Spirit, attend my lowly benison ! 
For now I strike to themes of import high 
The solitary lyre ; and, borne by thee 
Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 
The mysteries of Time ! 

Him who, august, 
Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere the sun 
Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display'd 
His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, 



TIME. 363 

Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 
Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 
Had swept unvarying from eternity ! 
Tlie harp of desolation — ere his tones' 
At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 
And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 
Chaos' sluggish sentry and evoked 
From the dark void the smiling universe. 

Chain'd to the grovelling frailties of the flesh, 

Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly dross. 

Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, 

The dim uncertain gulf, which now the muse, 

Adventurous, would explore ; — but dizzy grown. 

He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 

Tlie fearful chasm, and catch a transient glimpse 

Of its unfathomable depths, that so 

His mind may turn with double joy to God, 

His only certainty and resting place ; 

He must put off awhile this mortal vest. 

And learn to follow without giddiness, 

To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 

And vague conjecture. — He must waste by night 

The studious taper, far from all resort 

Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 

High on the beetling promontory's crest, 

Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, [shapes. 

Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest 

He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 

In the great Architect, who lives confess'd 

In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 



364 H. K. white's poems. 

So has divine Philosophy, with voice 

Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, ■ 

Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, 

Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, 

His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 

Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep 

Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, 

So sober, as may not unseemly suit 

With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 

So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 

Of many winters, — ^rearing its meek head 

In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 

Is number'd with the generations gone. 

Yet not to me hath God's good providence 

Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 

Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 

Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 

Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er. 

Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din : 

From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 

With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 

Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 

Of steadfast application, but which leave 

No deep improving trace upon the mind. 

But be the day another's ; — ^let it pass ! 

The night's my own — They cannot steal my night ! 

When evening lights her folding-star on high, 

I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 

Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, 

* The author was then in an attorney's office. 



TIME. 365 

Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for 
Heaven. 

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; [theme, 
Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my 
And she shall aid me now to magnify 
The night of ages, — now when the pale ray 
Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom, 
And, at my window seated, while mankind 
Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the refreshing breeze 
Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole. 
Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine. 
Assumes her wonted sway. 

Behold the world 
Rests, and her tired inhabitants tfave paused 
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. 
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
The outcast that his head is shelterless. 
His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch. 
Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, lull'd 
On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd. 
Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shud- 
dering nurse. 
Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep repose 
Reign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice 
Of Nature utters audibly within 
The general moral : — tells us that repose, 
31 * 



2S6 H. K. white'^s poems» 

Deathlike as this, but of far longer span. 

Is coming on us — that the weary crowds, 

Who now enjoy a temporary calm, 

Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around 

With grave-clothes : and their aching restless heads 

Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, 

Till the last trump shall break their sullen sleep. 

Who needs a teacher to admonish him 

That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist ? 

What are our joys but dreams ? and what our hopes 

But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 

There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 

Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies 

But puts its sickle in the fields of life. 

And mows its thousands, with their joys and cares. 

'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars. 

Which now I view, the Chaldee Shepherd* gazed 

In his mid-watch observant, and disposed 

The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 

Yet in the interim what mighty shocks 

Have bufleted mankind — whole nations razed-— 

Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 

To barbarism, and once barbaric states 

Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 

Illustrious deeeds and memorable names 

Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 

Of gray Tradition, voluble no more. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past ? ' 
Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty ones 

* Alluding to the first astronomical observations made by 
the Chaldean shepherds. 



TIME. 367 

Who flourish'd in the infancy of days ? 
All to the grave gone down. On their fallen fame 
Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, 
Sits grim For get fulness. — The warrior's arm 
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 
Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the blaze 
Of his red eye-ball. — Yesterday his name 
Was mighty on the earth — To day — 'tis what ? 
The meteor of the night of distant years, 
That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, 
Musing at midnight upon prophecies. 
Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up 
Safe in the charnel's treasures. 

how weak 
Is mortal man ! how trifling — how confined 
His scope of vision ! Pufl^'d with confidence, 
His phrase grows big with immortality, 
And he, poor insect of a summer's day ! 
Dreams of eternal honours to his name ; 
Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
He idly reasons of eternity, 
As of the train of ages, — when, alas ! 
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
Are, in comparison, a little point 
Too trivial for accompt. — 0, it is strange, 
'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile. 
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies. 
And smile, and say, my name shall live with this 
Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet, 



368 H. K. white's poems. , 

Yea, at his very feet, the crumbUng dust 
Of the fallen fabric of the other day- 
Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know 
That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast 
That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump 
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
Of the gigantic pyramid ? or who 
Rear'd its huge walls ? Oblivion laughs, and says, 
The prey is mine. — They sleep, and never more 
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, 
Their memory bursts its fetters. 

Where is Rome ? 
She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home, 
And her long colonnades, her public walks. 
Now faintly echo to the pilgrims feet. 
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace. 
Through the rank moss reveal'd,her honour 'd dust. 
But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
The doom of ruin; cities numberless. 
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
And rich Phoenicia — they are blotted out. 
Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
And being in dispute. — Has Athens fallen ? 
Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat 
Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall we dare 



And empire seeks another hemisphere. 



TIME. 36 & 

Where now is Britain? — Where her laurell'd 

names, 
Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust, 
Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride, 
A.nd with one big recoil hath thrown her back 

To primitive barbarity. Again, 

rhrough her depopulated vales, the scream 

Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, 

And the scared native to the tempest howls 

The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts. 

Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 

Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 

Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 

Even as the savage sits upon the stone 

That marks where stood her capitols, and hears 

The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 

From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 

Sing in a language that hath perished ; 

And their wild harps suspended o'er their graves. 

Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy. 
Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, 
Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden dreams, 
Steering his bark through trackless solitudes. 
Where, to his wondering thoughts, no daring prow 
Hath ever plough'd before, — espies the cliffs 
Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 
He journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 
Some vestige of her ancient stateliness : 
Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 
Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 



370 H. K. white's poems. 

At science in that solitary nook, 

Far from the civil world ; and sagely sighs. 

And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 

Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 

And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 

We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 

And as we fall, another race succeeds. 

To perish likewise. — Meanwhile Nature smiles — 

The seasons run their round — The Sun fulfils 

His annual course — and Heaven and earth remain 

Still changing, yet unchanged — still doom'd to feel 

Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 

Where are conceal'd the days which have elapsed ? 

Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, 

They rise upon us only to appal. 

By indistinct and half-glimpsed images. 

Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 

Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch. 

When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, 

And the pale moon, that through the casement high 

Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 

Of utter silence, it is fearful then 

To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 

Up the vague stream of probability ; 

To wind the mighty secrets of the past, 

And turn the key of Time ? — Oh ! who can strive 

To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 

Of the eternity that hath gone hy. 

And not recoil from the dismaying sense 



TIME. 371 

Of human impotence ? The Hfe of man 

Is summ'd m birth-days and in sepulchres : 

But the eternal God had no beginning ; 

He hath no end. Time had been with him 

For everlasting, ere the daedal world 

Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 

It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 

What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 

We comprehend n. future without end ; 

We feel it possible that even yon sun 

May roll for ever : but we shrink amazed — 

We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 

Knew no commencement, — That heap age on age^ 

And million upon million without end, 

And we shall never span the void of days 

That were, and are not but in retrospect. 

The Past is an unfathomable depth. 

Beyond the span of thought j ^tis an elapse 

Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 

For ever and for ever. 

Change of days 
To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun conducts us on 
Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
Not so with Time, — mysterious chronicler, 
He knoweth not mutation ; — centuries 
Are to his being as a day, and days 
As centuries. — Time past, and Time to come, 
Are always equal ; when the world began 
God had existed from eternity. 



372 H. K. white's poems. 

Now look on man 
Myriads of ages hence. — Hath time elapsed ? 
Is he not standing in the self-same place 
Where once we stood? — The same eternity 
Hath gone before him, and is yet to come ; 
His past is not of longer span than ours, 
Though myriads of ages intervened ; 
For who can add to what has neither sum, 
Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end ? 
Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 
Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 
In speculations of an altitude 
Sublime as this, our reason stands confessed 
Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 
Who can apply the futile argument 
Of finite beings to infinity ? 
He might as well compress the universe 
Into the hollow compass of a gourd, 
Scoop 'd out by human art ; or bid the whale 
Drink up the sea it swims in ! — Can the less 
Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 
Infold the glories of meridian day ? 
What does Philosophy impart to man 
But undiscover'd wonders ? — Let her soar 
Even to her proudest heights — to where she caught 
The soul of Newton and of Socrates, 
She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
And admiration. All her lessons end 
In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 

Lo ! the unletter'd hind, who never knew 
To raise his mind excursive to the heights 



TIME. 373 

Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 
That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, 
Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse 
The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 
The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 
Throned in the west, and his reposing ear 
Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze [brake, 
That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy 
Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 
Go with the cotter to his winter fire. 
Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; 
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar. 
Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 
The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys : 
Hear him compare his happier lot with his 
Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 
Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path. 
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 
He hears some village-mastiif's distant howl. 
And sees, far-streaming, some lone cottage light ; 
Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes. 
And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpower'd, 
Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with 

sleep. 
From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 
Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 
32 



374 H. K, white's poems. 

And glowing gratitude, — he turns to bless, 

With honest warmth, his Maker and his God ! 

And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 

Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 

In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal 

To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 

Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, 

And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews. 

Closes his eye upon the holy word, 

And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 

Dares to declare his infidelity. 

And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts ? 

What is philosophy, if it impart 

Irreverence for the Deity, or teach 

A mortal man to set his judgment up 

Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 

Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 

Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys. 

Is the most bless'd of men ! — Oh ! I would walk 

A weary journey, to the furthest verge 

Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 

"Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art. 

Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 

Feeling the sense of his own littleness. 

Is as a child in meek simplicity ! 

What is the pomp of learning ? the parade 

Of letters and of tongues ? Even as the mists 

Of the gray morn before the rising sun, 

That pass away and perish. 

Earthly things 
Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 



TIME. 375 

That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 
Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, 
And then record its downfall, what are they 
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 
Hath Heaven its ages ? or doth Heaven preserve 
Its stated seras? Doth the Omnipotent 
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 
There is to God nor future nor a past ; 
Throned in his might, all times to him are present ; 
He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 
He sees before him one eternal now. 
Time moveth not ! — our being 'tis that moves : 
And we, swift gliding down hfe's rapid stream. 
Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days ; 
So the young sailor in the gallant bark. 
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, 
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
And that the land is sailing. 

Such, alas ! 
Are the illusions of this Proteus life ; 
All, all is false : through every phasis still 
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes 
The semblance of things and specious shapes ; 
But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
On the evasive spirit of the marsh. 
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, 
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, 
As we on its appearances. 



376 H. K. white's poems. 

On earth 
There is nor certainty nor stable hope. 
As well the weary mariner, whose bark 
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear domain, 
And smibeams never penetrate, might trust 
To expectation of serener skies, 
And linger in the very jaws of death, 
Because some peevish cloud were opening, 
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage : 
As we look forward in this vale of tears 
To permanent delight — from some slight glimpse 
Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. 

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 

The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 

Of mortal desolation. — He beholds, 

Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 

Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves 

Of dark Vicissitude. — Even in death, 

In that dread hour, when with a giant pang, 

Tearing the tender fibres of the heart. 

The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 

Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not. 

For it exists beyond the narrow verge 

Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 

Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd. 

And rested on the bosom of its God. 

This is man's only reasonable hope ; 

And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 

Shall not be disappointed. — Even he. 



TIME. 377 

The Holy One — Almighty— who elanced 
The rolling world along its airy way, 
Even He will deign to smile upon the good, 
And welcome him to these celestial seats, 
Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. 
Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, 
Survey the countless gems which richly stud, 
The Night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes 
Will show thee myriads more innumerous 
Than the sea sand ; — each of those little lamps 
Is the great source of light, the central sun 
Round which some other mighty sisterhood 
Of planets travel, every planet stock'd 
With living beings impotent as thee. [fled ? 

Now, proud man ! now, where is thy greatness 
What art thou in the scale of universe ? 
Less, less than nothing ! — Yet of thee the God 
Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, 
As well as of the mendicant who begs 
The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 
Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 
His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool. 
Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death. 
Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man. 
Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour ; 
How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 
Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 
God of the universe ! Almighty one ! 
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 
32* 



378 H. K. white's poems. 

Or with the storm thy rugged charioteer, 
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
Ridest from pole to pole ; Thou who dost hold 
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp, 
And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath 
Goes down towards erring man, I would address 
To Thee my parting psean ; for of Thee, 
Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 
Art Tim.e and Space, sublime Infinitude, 
Of Thee has been my song — With awe I kneel 
Trembling before the footstool of thy state. 
My God ! my Father ! — I will sing to Thee 
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle. 
Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 
The throne of Death, I hang my mournful lyre, 
And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 
Rise, Son of Salem ! rise, and join the strain, 
Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp. 
And leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 
To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing. 
And hallelujah, for the Lord is great 
And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 
Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, has 

thought 
Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 
Of morn, and perish ere the noon-day sun. 
Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful : 
He gave the Nubian lion but to live. 
To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man. 
He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven. 
The eagle falls from her aerial tower, 



TIME. 379 

And mingles with irrevocable dust : 

But man from death springs joyful, 

Springs up to life and to eternity. 

Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, 

The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 

On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 

To treat with slight regard the profler'd Heaven, 

And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 

In wrath, " They shall not enter in my rest." 

Might I address the supplicative strain 

To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 

Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers. 

And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 

Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Him, 

Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross, 

Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin, 

And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 

Of primitive transgression. 

Oh ! I shrink. 
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
That the time hastens, when in vengeance clothed, 
Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of fate 
On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
Then shall rebound to earths remotest caves. 
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread. 
On the dark eye of miserable man, 
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
Will burst the eff'ulgence of the opening Heaven ; 
When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, 
Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend. 



380 H, K. white's poems. 

Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word ! 

The dead shall start astonish'd from their sleep ! 

The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, 

The bellowing floods shall disembogue theircharge 

Of human victims. — From the farthest nook 

Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, 

From him whose bones are bleaching in the waste 

Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 

Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, 

Is wash'd on some Carribean prominence, 

To the lone tenant of some secret cell 

In the Pacific's vast * * * realm, 

Where never plummet's sound was heard to part 

The wilderness of water ; they shall come 

To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 

Thou first shalt summon the elected saints, 

To their apportion'd Heaven ! and thy Son, 

At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious joy 

On all his past distresses, when for them 

He bore humanity's severest pangs. 

Then shalt thou seize the avenging scymitar, 

And, with a roar as loud and horrible 

As the stern earthquake's monitory voice. 

The wicked shall be driven to their abode, 

Down the immitigable gulf, to wail 

And gnash their teeth in endless agony, f 

****** 
Rear thou aloft thy standard.— -Spirit, rear 
Thy flag on high .'—Invincible, and throjied 
In unparticipated might. Behold 
Earth's proudest boasts, be.^eath thy silent sway. 



TIME. 381 

Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, 

Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the rush 

Of mighty generations, as they pass 

To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 

Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. [Time, 

Who shall contend with Time — unvanquish'd 

The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 

Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly, 

The hours and days, and years and centuries, 

They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 

The young are old, the old are in their graves. 

Heard'st thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted skies ; 

It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 

Again ! 'tis hush'd — Time speaks, and all is hush'd; 

In the vast multitude now reigns alone 

Unruflled solitude. They all are still ; 

All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, 

Still as the ground that clasps their cold remains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
Thy flag on high ! and glory in thy strength. 
But do thou know the season yet shall come, 
When from its base thine adamantine throne 
Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to strike, 
Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; [more. 
When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no 
Yea, he doth come — the mighty champion comes, 
Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death- 
wound. 
Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, 
And desolate stern Desolation's lord. 



382 H. K. white's poems. 

Lo ! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 
The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ ! — He comes 
So burst the bonds of death, and overturn 
The power of Time. — Hark ! the trumpet's blast 
Rings o'er the heavens ! They rise the myriads 

rise — 
Even from their graves they spring, and burst the 

chains 
Of torpor — He has ransom'd them, * * * 

Forgotten generations live again, 
Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, 
Beyond the flood ; — the righteous of their times 
Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 
The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap 
Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, 
And heritor with her of Heaven, — a flower 
Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain 
Of native guilt, even in its early bud, 
And, hark ! those strains, how solemnly serene 
They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 
Again more loud — The hallelujah's swell ; 
The newly -risen catch the joyful sound ; 
They glow, they burn ; and now with one accord 
Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the song 
Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 
Who bled for mortals. 



Yet there is peace for man. — Yea, there is peace 
Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 



TIME. 383 

When from the crowd, and from the city far, 
Haply he may be set (in his late walk 
O'er taken with deep thought) beneath the boughs 
Of honeysuckle when the sun is gone, 
And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys 
The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail. 
And thinks the season yet shall come, when Time 
Will waft him to repose, to deep repose. 
Far from the unquietness of life — from noise 
And tumult far — ^beyond the flying clouds. 
Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, 
Where change shall cease, and Time shall be no 
more. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. I.) 



There is a mood 



(I sing not to the vacant and the young) 

There is a kindly mood of Melancholy, 

That wings the soul and points her to the skies. 

Dyer. 



Philosophers have divested themselves of 
their natural apathy, and poets have risen above 
themselves, in descanting on the pleasures of 
Melancholy. There is no mind so gross, no 
understanding so uncultivated, as to be incapable, 
at certain moments, and amid certam combina- 
tions, of feeling that sublime influence upon the 
spirits which steals the soul from the petty anxi- 
eties of the world, 

" And fits it to hold converse with the gods." 

I must confess, if such there be who never 
felt the divine abstraction, I envy them not 
their insensibility. For my own part, it is from 
the indulgence of this soothing power that I 
derive the most exquisite of gratifications ; at the 
calm hour of moonlight, amid all the sublime 
33 385 



386 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

serenity, the dead stillness of the night ; or when 
the howling storm rages in the heavens, the rain 
pelts on my roof, and the winds whistle through 
the crannies of my apartment, I feel the divine 
mood of melancholy upon me ; I imagine myself 
placed upon an eminence, above the crowds who 
pant below in the dusty tracks of wealth and 
honor. The black catalogue of crimes and of 
vice ; the sad tissue of wretchedness and wo, 
passes m review before me, and I look down upon 
man with an eye of pity and commiseration. 
Though the scenes which I survey be mournful, 
and the ideas they excite equally sombre ; though 
the tears gush as I contemplate them, and my 
heart feels heavy with the sorrowful emotions 
which they inspire ; yet are they not unaccompa- 
nied with sensations of the purest and most 
ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that Melancholy is 
forbidding ; in herself she is soft and interesting, 
and capable of affording pure and unalloyed 
delight. Ask the lover why he muses by the side 
of the purling brook, or plunges into the deep 
gloom of the forest ? Ask the unfortunate why 
he seeks the still shades of solitude ? or the man 
who feels the pangs of disappointed ambition, 
why he retires into the silent walks of seclusion ? 
and he will tell you that he derives a pleasure 
therefrom, which nothing else can impart. It is 
the delight of Melancholy, but the melancholy 
of these beings is as far removed from that of the 
philosopher, as are the narrow and contracted 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 387 

complaints of selfishness from the mournful regrets 
of expansive philanthropy ; as are the desponding 
intervals of insanity from the occasional depres- 
sions of benevolent sensibility. 

The man who has attained that calm equa- 
nimity which qualifies him to look down upon the 
petty evils of life with indifference ; who can so 
far conquer the weakness of nature, as to consider 
the sufferings of the individual of little moment, 
when put in competition with the welfare of the 
community, is alone the true philosopher. His 
melancholy is not excited by the retrospect of his 
own misfortunes ; it has its rise from the contem- 
plation of the miseries incident to life, and the evils 
which obtrude themselves upon society, and 
interrupt the harmony of nature. It would be 
arrogating too much merit to myself, to assert that 
I have a just claim to the title of a philosopher, 
as it is here defined ; or to say that the speculations 
of my melancholy hours are equally disinterested : 
be this as it may, I have determined to present my 
solitary effusions to the public ; they will at least 
have the merit of novelty to recommend them, and 
may possibly, in some measure, be instrumental 
in the melioration of the human heart, or the cor- 
rection of false prepossessions. This is the height of 
my ambition ; this once attained, and my end will 
be fully accomplished. One thing I can safely 
promise, though far from being the coinages of a 
heart at ease, they will contain neither the quer- 
ulous captiousness of misfortune, nor the bitter 
taunts of misanthropy. Society is a chain of 



388 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

•^hich I am merely a link : all men are my asso- 
ciates in error, and though some may have gone 
farther in ways of guilt than myself, yet it is not 
in me to sit in judgment upon them ; it is mine to 
treat them rather in pity than in anger, to lament 
their crimes and to weep over their sufferings. As 
these papers will be the amusement of those hours 
of relaxation, when the mind recedes from the 
vexations of business, and sinks into itself for a 
moment of solitary ease, rather than the efforts of 
literary leisure, the reader will not expect to find 
in them unusual elegance of language, or studied 
propriety of style. In the short and necessary in- 
tervals of cessation from the anxieties of an irk- 
some employment, one finds little time to be 
solicitous about expression. If, therefore, the 
fervor of a glowing mind expresses itself in too 
warm and luxuriant a manner for the cold ear of 
dull propriety, let the fastidious critic find a selfish 
pleasure in decrying it. To criticism melancholy is 
indifferent. If learning cannot be better employed 
than in declaiming against the defects, while it is 
insensible to the beauties of a performance, well 
may we exclaim with the poet, 

fi eujuivn; ayvoict cci cLfxiefAOi n; it 
OTa(,Y 01 <ru ov iy(Oig oyrco; »■' ouk ayvoti, 

w 



JIELANCHOLY HOUES. 389 

MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. 11.) 



But (wel-a-day !) who loves the Muses nowT 
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hyll? 
None leane to them ; but strive to disalow 
All heavenly dewes the goddesses distil. 

Wm. BrowTi's Shepheard's Pipe. Eg. 5. 



It is a melancholy reflection, and a reflection, 
which often sinks heavily on my soul, that the 
Sons of Genius generally seem predestined to 
encounter the rudest storms of adversity, to 
struggle, unnoticed, with poverty and misfortune. 
The annals of the world present us with many 
corroborations of this remark ; and, alas ! who 
can tell how many unhappy beings, who might 
have shone with distinguished lustre among the 
stars whichillumine our hemisphere may have sunk 
unknown beneath the pressure of untoward circum- 
stances ; who knows how many may have shrunk, 
with all the exquisite sensibility of genius, from, 
the rude and riotous discord of the world, into the 
peaceful slumbers of death. Among the number 
of those whose talents might have elevated them 
33* 



390 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

to the first rank of eminence, but who have been 
overwhelmed with the accumulated ills of poverty 
and misfortune, I do not hesitate to rank a young 
man whom I once accounted my greatest happiness 
to be able to call my friend. 

Charles Wanely was the only son of an 
humble village rector, who just lived to give him 
a liberal education, and then left him unprovided 
■ for and unprotected, to struggle through the world 
as well as he could. With a heart glowing with 
the enthusiasm of poetry and romance, with a 
sensibility the most exquisite, and with an indig- 
nant pride, which swelled in his veins, and told 
him he was a man, my friend found himself cast 
upon the wide world at the age of sixteen, an 
adventurer, without fortune and without connexion. 

As his independent spirit could not brook the 
idea of being a burden to those whom his father 
had taught him to consider only as allied by blood, 
and not by affection, he looked about him for a 
situation which could ensure to him, by his own 
exertions, an honorable competence. It was not 
long before such a situation offered, and Charles 
precipitately articled himself to an attorney, 
without giving himself time to consult his own 
inclinations, or the disposition of his master. The 
transition from Sophocles and Euripides, The- 
ocritus and Ovid, to Finche and Wood, Coke and 
Wynne, was striking and difficult ; but Charles 
applied himself with his wonted ardor' to his 
new study, as considering it not only his interest, 
but his duty so to do. It was not long, however. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 391 

before he discovered that he disHbed the law, 
that he disHked his situation, and that he despised 
his master. The fact was, my friend had many 
mortifications to endure, which his haughty soul 
could ill brook. The attorney to whom he was 
articled, was one of those narrow-minded beings 
who consider wealth as alone entitled to respect. 
He had discovered that his clerk was very 
poor, and very destitute of friends, and thence he 
very naturally concluded that he might insult him 
with impunity. It appears, however, that he was 
mistaken in his calculations. I one night remarked 
that my friend was unusually thoughtful. I ven- 
tured to ask him whether he had met with any 
thing particular to ruffle his spirits. He looked 
at me for some moments significantly, then, as if 
roused to fury by the recollection — " I have," said 
he vehemently, " I have, I have. He has insulted 
me grossly, and I will bear it no longer." He 
now walked up and down the room with visible 
emotion. — Presently he sat down. — He seemed 
more composed. " My friend," said he, " I have 
endured much from this man. I conceived it my 
duty to forbear, but I have forborne until forbear- 
ance is blameable, and, by the Almighty, I will 
never again endure what I have endured this day. 
But not only this man ; every one thinks he may 
treat me with contumely, because I am poor and 
friendless. But I am a man, and will no longer 
tamely submit to be the sport of fools, and the 
foot-ball of caprice. In this spot of earth, thoug!i 
it gave me birth, I can never taste of ease. Here 



392 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

1 must be miserable. The principal end of man 
is to arrive at happiness. Here 1 can never attain 
it; and here therefore I will no longer remain. 
My obligations to the rascal, who calls himself my 
master, are cancelled by his abuse of the authority 
I rashly placed in his hands. I have no relations 
to bind me to this particular place." The tears 
started in his eyes as he spoke. " I have no tender 
ties to bid me stay, and why do I stay ? The world 
is all before me. My inclination leads me to 
travel ; I will pursue that inclination ; and, 
perhaps, in a strange land I may find that repose 
which is denied to me in the place of my birth. 
My finances, it is true, are ill able to support the 
expenses of travelling : but what then — Gold- 
smith, my friend," with rising enthusiasm, " Gold- 
smith traversed Europe on foot, and I am as 
hardy as Goldsmith. Yes, I will go, and perhaps, 
ere long, I may sit me down on some towering 
mountain, and exclaim with him, while a hundred 
realms lie in perspective before me, 

" Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine." 

It was in vain I entreated him to reflect ma- 
turely, ere he took so bold a step ; he was deaf to 
my importunities, and the next morning I received 
a letter informing me of his departure. He was 
observed about sun-rise, sitting on the stile, at the 
top of an eminence which commanded a prospect 
of the surrounding country, pensively looking 
towards the village. I could divine his emotions, 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 393 

on thus casting probably a last look on his native 
place. The neat white parsonage-house, with the 
honeysuckle mantling on its wall, I knew would 
receive his last glance ; and the image of his fa- 
ther would present itself to his mind, with a mel- 
ancholy pleasure, as he was thus hastening, a sol- 
itary individual, to plunge himself into the crowds 
of the world, deprived of that fostering hand 
which would otherwise have been his support and 
guide. 

From this period Charles Wanely was never 

heard of at L , and, as his few relations cared 

little about him, in a short time it was almost 
forgotten that such a being had ever been in 
existence. 

About five years had elapsed from this period, 
when my occasions led me to the continent. I 
will confess I was not without a romantic hope, 
that I might agahi meet with my lost friend ; and 
that often, with that idea, I scrutinized the fea- 
tures of the passengers. One fine moonlight night, 
as I was strolling down the grand Italian Strada 
di Toledo, at Naples, I observed a crowd assem- 
bled round a man, who, with impassioned gestures, 
seemed to be vehemently declaiming to the mul- 
titude. It was one of the Improvisatori, who 
recite extempore verses in the streets of Naples, 
for what money they can collect from the hearers. 
I stopped to listen to the man's metrical romance, 
and had remained in the attitude of attention some 
time, when, happening to turn round, I beheld a 
person very shabbily dressed, steadfastly gazing at 



394 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

me. The moon shone full in his face. 1 thought 
his features were familliar to me. He was pale 
and emaciated, and his countenance bore marks 
of the deepest dejection. Yet, amidst all these 
changes, I thought I recognised Charles Wanely. 
I stood stupified with surprise. My senses nearly 
failed me. On recovering myself, I looked again, 
but he had left the spot the moment he found 
himself observed. I darted through the crowd, 
and ran every way which I thought he could have 
gone, but it was all to no purpose. Nobody knew 
him. Nobody had even seen such a person. The 
two following days I renewed my inquiries, and 
at last discovered the lodgings where a man of 
his description had resided. But he had left 
Naples the morning after his form had struck my 
eyes. I found he gained a subsistence by draw- 
ing rude figures in chalks and vending them 
among the peasantry. I could no longer doubt 
it was my friend, and immediately perceived that 
his haughty spirit could not bear to be recognised 
in such degrading circumstances, by one who had 
known him in better days. Lamenting the mis- 
guided notions which had thus again thrown him 
from me, I left Naples, now grown hateful to my 
sight, and embarked for England. It is now 
nearly twenty years since this recounter, during 
which period he has not been heard of ; and there 
can be little doubt that this unfortunate young 
man has found, in some rem.ote corner of the con- 
tinent, an obscure and an unlamented grave. 
Thus, those talents which were formed to do 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 395 

honor to human nature, and to the country 
which gave them birth, have been nipped in the 
bud of the frosts of poverty and scorn, and their 
unhappy possessor Hes in an unknown and name- 
less tomb, who might, under happier circumstances, 
have risen to the highest pinnacle of ambition 
and renown. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. III.) 



Few know that elegance of soul refined, 
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy 
From melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride 
Of tasteless splendor and magnificence 
Can e'er afford. 

Warton's Melancholy. 



In one of my midnight rambles down the side 
of the Trent, the river which waters the place of 
my nativity, as I was musing on the various evils 
which darken the life of man, and which have 
their rise in the malevolence and ill-nature of his 



396 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

fellows, the sound of a flute from s.ri adjoining 
copse attracted my attention. The tune it played 
was mournful, yet soothing. It was suited to the 
solemnity of the hour. As the distant notes came 
wafted at intervals on my ear, now with gradual 
swell, then dying away on the silence of the 
night, I felt the tide of indignation subside 
within me, and give place to the solemn calm of 
repose. I listened for some time in breathless 
ravishment. The strain ceased, yet the sounds 
still vibrated on my heart, and the visions of bliss 
which they excited, still glowed on my imagina- 
tion. I was then standing in one of my favorite 
retreats. It was a little alcove, overshadowed 
with willows, and a mossy seat at the back invited 
to rest. I laid myself listlessly on the bank. The 
Trent murmured softly at my feet, and the willows 
sighed as they waved over my head. It was the 
holy moment of repose, and I soon sunk into a 
deep sleep. The operations of fancy in a slumber, 
induced by a combination of circumstances so 
powerful and uncommon, could not fail to be wild 
and romantic in the extreme. Methought I found 
myself in an extensive area, filled with an immense 
concourse of people. At one end was a throne 
of adamant, on which sat a female, in whose 
aspect I immediately recognised a divinity. She 
was clad in a garb of azure, on her forehead she 
bore a sun, whose splendor the eyes of many 
were unable to bear, and whose rays illumined 
the whole space, and penetrated into the deepest 
recesses of darkness. The aspect of the goddess 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 397 

at a distance was forbidding, but on a nearer 
approach, it was mild and engaging. Her eyes 
were blue and piercing, and there was a fascina- 
tion in her smile which charmed as if by enchant- 
ment. The air of intelligence which beamed hi 
her look, made the beholder shrink into himself 
with the consciousness of inferiority ; yet the 
aifability of her deportment, and the simplicity 
and gentleness of her manners, soon reassured 
him, while the bewitching softness which she 
could at times assume, won his permanent 
esteem. 

On inquiry of a. by-stander who it was that sat 
on the throne, and what was the occasion of so 
uncommon an assembly, he informed me that it 
was the Goddess of Wisdom, who had at last 
succeeded in regaining the dominion of the earth, 
which Folly had so long usurped. That she sat 
there in her judicial capacity, in order to try the 
merits of many who were supposed to be the 
secret emissaries of Folly. In this way I under- 
stood Envy and Malevolence had been sentenced 
to perpetual banishment, though several of their 
adherents yet remained among men, whose minds 
were too gross to be irradiated with the light of 
wisdom. One trial I understood was just ended, 
and another supposed delinquent was about to be 
put to the bar. With much curiosity I hurried 
forwards to survey the figure which now 
approached. She was habited in black, and 
veiled to the waist. Her pace was solemn and 
majestic, yet in every movement was a winnmg 
34 



398 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

gracefulness. As she approached to the bar, I 
got a nearer view of her, when, what was my 
astonishment to recognise in her the person of my 
favorite goddess, Melancholy. Amazed that she, 
whom I had always looked upon as the sister and 
companion of Wisdom, should be brought to 
trial as an emissary and an adherent of Folly, I 
waited in mute impatience for the accusation 
which could be framed against her. — On looking 
towards the centre of the area, I was much 
surprised to see a bustling little Cit of my 
acquaintance, who, by his hemming and clearing, 
I concluded was going to make the charge. As 
he was a self-important little fellow, full of 
consequence and business, and totally incapable 
of all the finer emotions of the soul, I could not 
conceive what ground of complaint he could have 
against Melancholy, who, I was persuaded, would 
never have deigned to take up her residence for a 
moment in his breast. When I recollected, how- 
ever, that he had some sparks of ambition in his 
composition, and that he was an envious, carping 
little mortal, who had formed the design of 
shouldering himself into notice by decrying the 
defects of others, while he was insensible to his 
own, my amazement and my apprehensions 
vanished, as I perceived he only wanted to make 
a display of his own talent, in doing which I did 
not fear his making himself sufficiently ri,dicuIous. 
After a good deal of irrelevant circumlocution, 
he boldly began the accusation of Melancholy. 
I shall not dwell upon many absurd and many 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 399 

invidious parts of his speech, nor upon the many 
blunders in the misapplication of words, such as 
" deduce"" for " detract,"" and others of a similar 
nature, which my poor friend committed m the 
course of his harangue, but shall only dwell upon 
the material parts of the charge. 

He represented the prisoner as the offspring of 
Idleness and Discontent, who was at all times a 
sulky, sullen, and " eminently useless" member of 
the community, and not unfrequently a very 
dangerous one. He declared it to be his opinion, 
that in case she w~ere to be suffered to prevail, 
mankind would soon become " too idle to go,'* 
and would all lie down and perish through indo- 
lence, or through forgetting that sustenance was 
necessary for the preservation of existence ; and 
concluded with painting the horrors which would 
attend such a depopulation of the earth, in such 
colors as made many weak minds regard the god- 
dess with fear and abhorrence. 

Having concluded, the accused was called upon 
for her defence. She immediately, with a graceful 
gesture, lifted up the veil which concealed her face, 
and discovered a countenance so soft, so lovely, 
and so sweetly expressive, as to strike the beholders 
with involuntary admiration, and v/hich, at one 
glance overturned all the flimsy sophistry of my 
poor friend the citizen ; and when the silver tones 
of her voice were heard, the murmurs, which until 
then had continually arisen from the crowd were 
hushed to a dead still, and the whole multitude 
stood transfixed in breathless attention. As near 



400 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

as I can recollect, these were the words in which 
she addressed herself to the throne of wisdom. 

I shall not deign to give a direct answer to 
the various insinuations which have been thrown 
out against me by my accuser. Let it suffice that 
I declare my true history, in opposition to that 
which has been so artfully fabricated to my disad- 
vantage. In that early age of the world, when 
mankind followed the peaceful avocations of a 
pastoral life only, and contentment and harmony 
reigned in every vale, I was not known among 
men \ but when, in process of time. Ambition and 
Vice, with their attendant evils, were sent down 
as a scourge to the human race, I made my appear- 
ance. I am the offspring of Misfortune and Virtue, 
and was sent by Heaven to teach my parents how 
to support their afflictions with magnanimity. As 
I grew up, I became the intimate friend of thie 
wisest among men. I was the bosom friend of 
Plato, and other illustrious sages of antiquity, and 
was then often known by the name of Philosophy, 
though, in present times, when that title is usurped 
by mere makers of experiments, and inventors of 
blacking-cakes, I am only known by the appellation 
of Melancholy. So far from being of a discon- 
tented disposition, my very essence is pious and 
resigned contentment. 1 teach my votaries to 
support every vicissitude of fortune with calmness 
and fortitude. It is mine to subdue the stormy 
propensities of passion and vice, to foster and 
encourage the principles of benevolence and phi- 
lanthropy, and to cherish and bring to perfection 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 401 

the seeds of virtue and wisdom. Though feared 
and hated by those who, hke my accuser, are 
ignorant of my nature, I am courted and cherished 
by all the truly wise, the good, and the great 5 the 
poet wooes me as the goddess of inspiration ; the 
true philosopher acknowledges himself indebted 
to me for his most expansive views of human 
nature ; the good man owes to me that hatred of 
the wrong and love of the right, and that disdain 
for the consequences which may result from the 
performance of his duties, which keeps him good ; 
and the religious flies to me for the only clear and 
unencumbered view of the attributes and perfec- 
tions of the Deity. So far from being idle, my 
mind is ever on the wing in the regions of fancy, 
or that true philosophy which opens the book of 
human nature, and raises the soul above the evils 
incident to life. If I am useless, in the same degree 
were Plato and Socrates, Locke and Payley , useless ; 
it is true that my immediate influence is confined, 
but its effects are dissiminated by means of liter- 
ature over every age and nation, and mankind in 
every generation, and in every clime, may look to 
me as their remote illuminator, the original spring 
of the principal intellectual benefits they possess. 
But as there is no good without its attendant evil, so 
I have an elder sister, called Phrenzy, for whom 1 
have often been mistaken, who sometimes follows 
close on my steps, and to her I owe much of the 
obloquy which is attached to my name ; thougii 

the peurile accusation which has just been brought 
34* 



402 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

against me turns on points which apply more 
exclusively to myself. 

She ceased, and a dead pause ensued. The 
multitude seemed struck with the fascination of 
her utterance and gesture, and the sounds of her 
voice still seemed to vibrate on every ear. The 
attention of the assembly, however, was soon 
recalled to the accuser, and their indignation at 
his baseness rose to such a height as to threaten 
general tumult, when the Goddess of Wisdom 
arose, and, waving her hand for silence, beckoned 
the prisoner to her, placed her on her right hand, 
and, with a sweet smile, acknowledged her for her 
old companion and friend. She then turned to 
the accuser, with a frown of severity so terrible, 
that I involuntarily started with terror from my 
poor misguided friend, and with the violence of 
the start I awoke, and, instead of the throne of the 
Goddess of Wisdom, and the vast assembly of 
people, beheld the first rays of the morning peeping 
over the eastern cloud ; and, instead of the loud 
murmurs of the incensed multitude, heard nothing 
but the soft gurgling of the river at my feet, and 
the rustling wing of the sky -lark, wlio was now 
beginning his first matin-song. 

W 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 403 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. IV.) 



ISOCR. 



The world has often heard of fortune-hunters, 
legacy -hunters, popularity -hunters, and hunters of 
various descriptions — one diversity, however, of 
this very extensive species has hitherto eluded 
public animadversion; I allude to the class of 
friend-hunters — men who make it the business of 
their lives to acquire friends, in the hope, through 
their influence, to arrive at some desirable point 
of ambitious eminence. Of all the mortifications 
and anxieties to which mankind voluntarily subject 
themselves, from the expectation of future benefit, 
there are, perhaps, none more galling, none more 
insupportable, than those attendant on friend- 
making. — Show a man that you court his society, 
and it is a signal for him to treat you with 
neglect and contumely. Humor his -passions, 
and he despises you as a sycophant. Pay implicit 
deference to his opinions, and he laughs at you for 
your folly. In all, he views you with contempt, 
as the creature of his will, and the slave of his 



404 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

caprice. I remember I once solicited the acquaint- 
ance and coveted the friendship of one man, and, 
thanlc God, I can yet say (and I hope on my death- 
bed I shall be able to say the same) of only one 
man. 

Germanicus was a character of considerable 
eminence in the literary world. He had the repu- 
tation not only of an enlightened understanding and 
refined taste, but of openness of heart and good- 
ness of disposition. His name always carried 
with it that weight and authority which are due 
to learning and genius in every situation. His 
manners were polished, and his conversation 
elegant. In short, he possessed every qualification 
which could render him an enviable addition to 
the circle of every man's friends. With such a 
character, as I was then very young, I could not 
fail to feel an ambition of becoming acquainted, 
when the opportunity offered, and in a short time 
we were upon terms of familiarity. To ripen this 
familiarity into friendship, as far as the most 
awkwarddiffidencewouldpermitjWas my strenuous 
endeavor. If his opinions contradicted mine, 1 
immediately, without reasoning on the subject, 
conceded the point to him as a matter of course 
that he must be right, and by consequence that 
I must be wrong. Did he utter a witticism, I was 
sure to laugh ; and if he looked grave, though 
nobody could tell why, it was mine to gro^n. By 
thus conforming myself to his humor, I flattered 
myself I was making some progress in his good 
graces, but I was soon undeceived. A rnan seldom 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 405 

cares much for that which costs him no pains to 
procm'e. Whether Germanicus found me a trou- 
blesome visitor, or whether he was really displeased 
with something I had unwittingly said or done; 
certain it is, that when I met him one day, in 
company with persons of apparent figure, he had 
lost all recollection of my features. I called upon 
him, but Germanicus was not at home. Again 
and again I gave a hesitating knock at the great 
man's door — all Avas to no purpose. He was still 
not at home. The sly meaning, however, which 
was couched in the sneer of the servant the last 
time that, half ashamed of my errand, I made my 
inquiries at his house, convinced me of what I 
ought to have known before, that Germanicus was 
at home to all the world save me. I believe, with 
all my seeming humility, I am a confounded proud 
fellow at bottom ; my rage at this discovery, there- 
fore, may be better conceived than described. Ten 
thousand curses did I imprecate on the foolish 
vanity which led me to solicit the friendship of 
my superior,, and again and again did I vow down 
eternal vengeance on my head, if I evermore 
condescended thus to court the acquaintance of 
man. To this resolution I believe I shall ever 
adhere. If I am destined to make any progress in 
the world, it will be by my own individual exer- 
tions. As I elbow my way through the crowded 
vale of life, I will never, in any emergency, call 
on my selfish neighbor for assistance. If my 
strength give way 'beneath the pressure of 
calamity, I shall sink without his whine of hypo- 



408 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

critical condolence ; and if I do sink, let him kick 
me into a ditch, and go about his business. I 
asked not his assistance while living, it will be of 
no service to me when dead. 

Believe me, reader, whoever thou mayest be, 
there are few among mortals whose friendship, 
when acquired, will repay thee for the meanness 
of solicitation. If a man voluntarily holds out 
his hand to thee, take it with caution. If thou 
find him honest, be not backward to receive his 
proffered assistance, and be anxious, when occa- 
sion shall require, to yield to him thine own. A 
real friend is the most valuable blessing a man 
can possess, and, mark me, it is by far the most 
rare. It is a black swan. But, whatever thou 
mayest do, solicit not friendship. If thou art 
young, and would make thy way in the world, 
bind thyself a seven year's apprentice to a city 
tallow-chandler, and thou mayest in time come to 
be lord mayor. Many people have made their 
fortunes at a tailor's board. Periwig-makers have 
been known to buy their x:ountry-seats, and 
bellows-menders have started their curricles ; but 
seldom, very seldom, has the man who placed his 
dependence on the friendship of his fellow-men 
arrived at even the shadow of the honors to which, 
through that medium, he aspired. Nay, even if thou 
shouldst find a friend ready to lend thee a helping 
hand, the moment, by his assistance, thou hast 
gained some little eminence, he will be the first to 
hurl thee down to thy primitive, and now, 
perhaps, irremediable obscurity. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 407 

Yet I see no more reason for complaint on the 
ground of the fallacy of human friendship, than I 
do for any other ordonnance of nature, which may 
appear to run counter to our happiness. Man is 
naturally a selfish creature, and it is only by the 
aid of philosophy that he can so far conquer the 
defects of his being, as to be capable of disin- 
terested friendship.. Who, then, can expect to 
find that benign disposition, which manifests itself 
in acts of disinterested benevolence and sponta- 
neous affection, a common visitor ? Who can preach 
philosophy to the mob ? 

The recluse, who does not easily assimilate 
with the herd of mankind, and whose manners 
with difficulty bend to the peculiarities of others, 
is not likely to have many real friends. His 
enjoyments, therefore, must be solitary, lone, and 
melancholy. His only friend is himself As he 
sits immersed in reverie by his midnight fire, and 
hears without the wild gusts of wind fitfully 
careering over the plain, he listens sadly attentive ; 
and as the varied intonations of the howling blast 
articulate to his enthusiastic ear, he converses 
with the spirits of the departed, while,between each 
dreary pause of the storm, he holds solitary com- 
munion with himself Such is the social intercourse 
of the recluse ; yet he frequently feels the soft 
consolations of friendship. A heart formed for the 
gentler emotions of the soul, often feels as strong 
an interest for what are called brutes, as most 
bipeds affect to feel for each other. Montaigne 
had his cat j I have read of a man whose only 



408 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

friend was a large spider ; and Trenck, in his 
dungeon, would sooner have lost his right hand 
than the poor little mouse, which, grown confident 
with indulgence, used to beguile the tedious hours 
of imprisonment with its gambols. For my own 
part, I believe my dog, who, at this moment, 
seated on his hinder legs, is wistfully surveying me, 
as if he was conscious of all that is passing in my 
mind : — my dog, I say, is as sincere, and, whatever 
the world may see, nearly as dear a friend, as 
any I possess ; and, when I shall receive that 
summons which may not now be far distant, he 
will whine a funeral requiem over my grave, 
more piteously than all the hired mourners in 
Christendom. Well, well, poor Bob has had a 
kind master of me, and, for my own part, I verily 
believe there are few things on this earth I shall 
leave with more regret than this faithful companion 
of the happy hours of my infancy. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 409 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. V.) 



Un Sonnet sans defaut vaut seul un long poeme, 
Mais en vain mille auteurs y pensent arriver ; 

A peine 

.peut-on admirer deus ou trois entre mille. 

BoiLEAU. 



There is no species of poetry which is better 
adapted to the taste of a melancholy man than the 
sonnet. While its brevity precludes the possibility 
of its becoming tiresome, and its full and 
expected close accords well with his dejected, and 
perhaps somewhat languid tone of mind, its 
elegiac delicacy and querimonious plaintiveness 
come in pleasing consonance with his feelings. 

This elegant little poem has met with a peculiar 
fate in this country: half a century ago it was 
regarded as utterly repugnant to the nature 
of our language, while at present it is the popular 
vehicle of the most admired sentiments of our 

best living poets. This remarkable mutation in 
35 



410 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

the opinions of our countrymen, may, however, 
be accounted for on plain and common principles. 
The earlier English sonneteers confined themselves 
in general too strictly to the Italian model, as well in 
the disposition of the rhymes, as in the cast of the 
ideas. A sonnet with them was only another 
word for some metaphysical conceit or clumsy 
antithesis, contained in fourteen harsh lines, full of 
obscure inversions and ill-managed expletives. 
They bound themselves down to a pattern which 
was in itself faulty, and they met with the common 
fate of servile imitators, in retaining all the defects 
of their original, while they suffered the beauties 
to escape in the process. Their sonnets are like 
copies of a bad picture, however accurately copied, 
they are still bad. Our contemporaries, on the 
contrary, have given scope to their genius in the 
sonnet without restraint, sometimes even growing 
licentious in their liberty, setting at defiance those 
rules which form its distinguishing peculiarity, and, 
under the name of sonnet, soaring or falling into 
ode or elegy. Their compositions, of course, are 
impressed with all those excellencies which would 
have marked their respective productions in any 
similar walk of poetry. 

It has never been disputed that the sonnet first 
arrived at celebrity in the Italian : a language 
which, as it abounds in a musical similarity of 
terminations, is more eminently qualified to give 
ease and eloquence to the legitimate sonnet, 
restricted as it is to stated and frequently -recurring 
rhymes of the same class. As to the inventors of 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 411 

this little structure of verse, they are involved in 
impenetrable obscurity. Some authors have 
ascribed it singly to Guitone D'Arezzo, an Italian 
poet of the thirteenth century, but they have no 
sort of authority to adduce in support of their 
assertions. Arguing upon probabilities, with some 
slight coincidental corroborations, I should be 
inclined to maintain that its origin may be referred 
to an earlier period ; that it may be looked for 
among the Provengals, who left scarcely any 
combination of metrical sounds unattempted ; and 
who, delighting as they did in sound and jingle, 
might very possibly strike out this harmonious 
stanza of fourteen lines. Be this as it may, Dante 
and Petrarch were the first poets who rendered it 
popular, and to Dante and Petrarch therefore we 
must resort for its required rules. 

In an ingenious paper of Dr. Drake's "Literary 
Hours," a book which I have read again and 
again with undiminished pleasure, the merits of 
the various English writers in this delicate mode 
of composition are appreciated with much justice 
and discrimination. His veneration for Milton, 
however, has, if I may venture to oppose my judg- 
ment to his, carried him too far in praise of his 
sonnets. Those to the Nightingale and to Mr. 
Lawrence are, I think, alone entitled to the praise 
of mediocrity, and, if my memory fail me not, 
my opinion is sanctioned by the testimony of our 
late illustrious biographer of the poets. 

The sonnets of Drummond are characterized 
as exquisite. It is somewhat strange, if this des- 



413 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

cription be just, that they should so long have sunk 
into utter oblivion, and be revived only by a 
species of black-letter mania, which prevailed 
during the latter half of the eighteenth century, 
and of which some vestiges yet remain ; the more 
especially as Dr. Johnson, to whom they could 
scarcely be unknown, tells us, that " The fabric 
of the sonnet has never succeeded in our lan- 
guage." For my own part I can say nothing of 
them. I have long sought a copy of Drummond's 
works, and I have sought it in vain ; but from 
specimens which I nave casually met with, in 
quotations, I am forcibly inclined to favor the 
idea, that, as they possess natural and pathetic 
sentiments, clothed in tolerably harmonious lan- 
guage, they are entitled to the praise which has 
been so liberally bestowed on them. 

Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophel and Stella consists 
of a number of sonnets, which have been unac- 
countably passed over by Dr. Drake, and all our 
other critics who have written on this subject. 
Many of them are eminently beautiful. The 
works of this neglected poet may occupy a future 
number of my lucubrations. 

Excepting these two poets, I believe there is 
scarcely a writer who has arrived at any degree 
of excellence in the sonnet, until of late years, 
when our vernacular bards have raised it to a 
degree of eminence and dignity among the, various 
kinds of poetical composition, which seems to us 
almost incompatible with its very circumscribed 
limits. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 413 

Passing over the classical compositions of Whar- 
ton, which are formed more on the model of the 
Greek epigram, or epitaph, than the Italian sonnet, 
Mr. Bowles and Charlotte Smith are the first mod- 
ern writers who have met witli distinguished suc- 
cess in the sonnet. Those of the former, in par- 
ticular, are standards of excellence in this depart- 
ment. To much natural and accurate description, 
they unite a strain of the most exquisitely tender 
and delicate sentiment ; and, with a nervous 
strength of diction, and a wild freedom of versi- 
fication, they combine an euphonious melody, and 
consonant cadence, unequalled in the English lan- 
guage. While they possess, however, the superior 
merit of an original style, they are not unfrequently 
deformed by instances of that ambitious singular- 
ity which is but too frequently its concomitant. 
Of these the introduction of rhymes long since 
obsolete, is not the least striking. Though, in 
some cases, these revivals of antiquated phrase 
have a pleasing effect, yet they are oftentimes 
uncouth and repulsive. Mr. Bowles has almost 
always thrown aside the common rules of the 
sonnet; his pieces have no more claim to that 
specific denomination, than that they are confined 
to fourteen lines. How far this deviation from 
estabhshed principle is justifiable, may be dis- 
puted : for if, on the one hand, it be alleged that the 
confinement to the stated repetition of rhymes, so 
distant and frequent, is a restraint which is not 
compensated by an adequate effect on the other, it 
must be conceded, that these little poems are no 
35* 



414 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

longer sonnets than while they conform to the 
rules of the sonnet, and that the moment they for- 
sake them, they ought to resign the appellation. 

The name bears evident affinity to the Italian 
sonaire, "to resound'^ — " Sing around,'^ which 
originated in the Latin sonans, — sounding, jing- 
ling, ringing : or, indeed, it may come imme- 
diately from the French sonner, to sound, or ring, 
in which language, it is observable, we first meet 
with the word sonnette, where it signifies a little 
hell, and sonnettier, a maker of little bells ; and 
this derivation affords a presumption, almost 
amounting to certainty, that the conjecture before 
advanced, that the sonnet originated with the 
Provencals, is well founded. It is somewhat 
strange that these contending derivations have not 
been before observed, as they tend to settle a 
question, which, however intrinsically unim- 
portant, is curious and has been much agitated. 

But, wherever the name originated, it evidently 
bears relation only to the peculiarity of a set of 
chiming and jingling terminations, and of course 
can no longer be applied with propriety where that 
peculiarity is not preserved. 

The single stanza of fourteen lines, properly 
varied in their correspondent closes, is, notwith- 
standing, so well adapted for the expression of any 
pathetic sentiment, and is so pleasing and satis- 
factory to the ear when once accustomed to it, that 
our poetry would sufier a material loss were it to 
be disused through a rigid adherence to mere 
propriety of name. At the same time, our 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 415 

Jknguage does not supply a sufficiency of similar 
terminations to render the strict observance of its 
rules at all easy, or compatible with ease or 
elegance. The only question, therefore, is, whether 
the musical effect produced by the adherence to 
this difficult structure of verse overbalance the 
restraint it imposes on the poet, and in case we 
decide in the negative, whether we ought to 
preserve the denomination of sonnet, when we 
utterly renounce the very peculiarities which 
procured it that cognomen. 

In the present enlightened age, I think it will 
not be disputed that mere jingle and sound ought 
invariably to be sacrificed to sentiment and expres- 
sion. Musical effect is a very subordinate 
consideration ; it is the gilding to the cornices of a 
Vitruvian edifice ; the coloring to a shaded design 
of Michael Angelo. In its place, it adds to the 
effect of the whole ; but, when rendered a principal 
object of attention, it is ridiculous and disgusting. 
Rhyme is no necessary adjunct of true poetry. 
Southey's Thalaba is a fine poem, with no rhyme, 
and very little measure or metre ; and the produc- 
tion which is reduced to mere prose, by being 
deprived of its jingle, could never possess, in any 
state the marks of inspiration. 

So far, therefore, I am of opinion that it is 
advisable to renomice the Italian fabric altogether. 
We have already sufficient restrictions laid upon 
us by the metrical laws of our native tongue, and 
I do not see any reason, out of a blind regard for 
precedent, to tie ourselves to a difficult structure of 



416 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

verse, which probably originated with the Trou- 
badours, or wandering bards of France and Nor- 
mandy, or with a yet ruder race, one which is not 
productive of any rational effect, and which only 
pleases the ear by frequent repitition, as men who 
have once had the greatest aversion to strong wines 
and spirituous liquors, are, by habit, at last brought 
to regard them as delicacies. 

In advancing this opinion, I am aware that I am 
opposing myself to the declared sentiments of 
many individuals whom I greatly respect and 
admire. Miss Seward (and Miss Seward is in 
herself a host) has, both theoretically and practi- 
cally, defended the Italian structure. Mr. Capel 
Lofft has likewise favored the world with many 
sonnets, in which he shows his approval of the 
legitimate model by his adherence to its rules, and 
many of the beautiful poems of Mrs. Lofft, 
published in the Monthly Mirror, are likewise 
successfully formed by those rules. Much, how- 
ever, as I admire these writers, and ample as is 
the credence I give to their critical discrimination, 
I cannot, on mature reflection, subscribe to their 
position of the expediency of adopting this structure 
in our poetry, and I attribute their success in it 
more to their individual powers, which would have 
surmounted much greater difiiculties, than to the 
adaptability of this foreign fabric to our stubborn 
and intractable language. 

If the question, however, turn only on the pro- 
priety of giving to a poem a name which must be 
acknowledged to be entirely inappropriate, and to 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 417 

which it can have no sort of claim, I must confess 
that it is manifestly indefensible ; and we must 
then either pitch upon another appellation for our 
quatorzain, or banish it from our language; a 
measure which every lover of poetry must sin- 
cerely lament. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. VI.) 



Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Gray. 



Poetry is a blossom of very delicate growth ; 
it requires the maturing influence of vernal suns, 
and every encouragement of culture and attention, 
to bring it to its natural perfection. The pursuits 
of the mathematician, or the mechanical genius, 
are such as require rather strength and insensibil- 
ity of mind, than that exquisite and finely -wrought 
susceptibility, which invariably marks the temper- 
ament of the true poet ; and it is for this reason, 
that, while men of science have not unfrequently 
arisen from the abodes of poverty and labor. 



418 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

very few legitimate children of the Muse have 
ever emerged from the shades of hereditary 
obscurity. 

It is painful to reflect how many a bard now 
lies nameless and forgotten, in the narrow house, 
who, had he been born in competence and leisure, 
might have usurped the laurels from the most 
distinguished personages in the temple of Fame. 
The very consciousness of merit itself often acts in 
direct opposition to a stimulus to exertion, by ex- 
iting that mournful indignation at supposititious 
neglect, which urges a sullen concealment of tal- 
ent, and drives its possessor to that misanthropic 
discontent which preys on the vitals, and soon 
produces untimely mortality. A sentiment like 
this has, no doubt, often actuated beings, who 
attracted notice, perhaps, while they lived, only 
by their singularity, and who were forgotten 
almost ere their parent earth had closed over their 
heads, — beings who lived but to mourn and to 
languish for what they were never destined to 
enjoy, and whose exalted endowments were 
buried with them in their graves, by the want of a 
little of that superfluity which serves to pamper 
the debased appetites of the enervated sons of 
luxury and sloth. 

The present age, however, has furnished us with 
two illustrious instancesof poverty bursting through 
the cloud of surrounding impediments into the full 
blaze of notoriety and eminence. I allude to the 
two Bloomfields, bards who may challenge a com- 
parison with the most distinguished favorites of 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 419 

the Muse, and who both passed the day-spring of 
Hfe, in labor, indigence, and obscurity. 

The author of the Farmer's Boy hath ahead}'' 
received the applause he justly deserved. It yet 
remains for the Essay on War to enjoy all the dis- 
tinction it so richly merits, as well from its sterling 
worth, as from the circumstance of its author. 
Whether the present age will be inclined to do it 
full justice, may indeed be feared. Had Mr. Na- 
thaniel Bloomfield made his appearance in the 
horizon of letters prior to his brother, he would 
undoubtedly have been considered as a meteor of 
uncommon attraction ; the critics would have 
admired, because it would have been the fashion 
to admire. But it is to be apprehended that our 
countrymen become inured to phenomena ; — it is 
to be apprehended that the frivolity of the age 
cannot endure a repetition of the uncommon — that 
it will no longer be the rage to patronise indigent 
merit : that the beau monde will therefore neglect, 
and that, by a necessary consequence, the critics 
will sneer ! ! 

Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will meet 
with its reward ; and though the popularity of 
Mr. Bloomfield may be delayed, he must, at one 
time or other, receive the meed due to its deserts. 
Posterity will judge impartially ; and if bold and 
vivid images, and original conceptions, luminously 
displayed, and judiciously opposed, have any claim 
to the regard of mankind, the name of Nathaniel 
Bloomfield will not be without its high and appro- 
priate honors. 



420 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

Rosseau very truly observes, that with whatever 
talent a man may be born, the art of writing is 
not easily obtained. If this be applicable to men 
enjoying every advantage of scholastic initiation, 
how much more forcibly must it apply to the 
oifspring of a poor village tailor, untaught, and 
destitute both of the means and the time necessary 
for the cultivation of the mind ! If the art of 
writing be of difficult attainment to those who 
make it the study of their lives, what must it be to 
him, who, perhaps, for the first forty years of his 
life, never entertained a thought that any thing he 
could write would be deemed worthy the attention 
of the public ! — whose only time for rumination 
was such as a sedentary and sickly employment 
would allow ; on the tailor's board, surrounded 
with men, perhaps, of depraved and rude habits, 
and impure conversation ! 

And yet Mr. N. Bloomfield's poems display 
acuteness of remark, and delicacy of sentiment, 
combined with much strength, and considerable 
selection of diction, few will deny. The Psean to 
Gunpowder would alone prove both his power of 
language, and the fertility of his imagination ; and 
the following extract presents him to us in the still 
higher character of a bold and vivid painter. 
Describing the field after a battle, he says. 

Now here and there, about the horrid field, 
Striding across the dying and the dead, 
Stalks up a man, by strength superior, 
Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight, 
Preserv'd alive : — fainting he looks around; 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 42 i 

Fearing' pursuit — not caring to pursue. 
The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, 
Contortions of excruciating pain, 
Tiie shriek of torture, and the groan of death, 
Surround him ; — and as Night her mantle spreads^ 
To veil the horrors of the mourning field. 
With cautious step shaping his devious vi'ay, 
He seeks a covert where to hide and rest : 
At every leaf that rustles in the breeze 
Starting, he grasps his sword ; and every nerve 
Is ready strained, for combat or for flight. 

P. 12. Essay on War. 

If Mr. Bloomfield had written nothing besides 
the Elegy on the Enclosure of Honington Green, 
he would have had a right to be considered as a 
poet of no mean excellence. The heart which 
can read passages like the following without a 
sympathetic emotion, must be dead to every 
feeling of sensibiHty. 

STANZA VI. 

The proud city's gay wealthy train. 

Who nought but refinement adore, 
May wonder to hear me complain 

That Honington Green is no more ; 
But if to the church you e'er went, 

If you knew what the village has been, 
You will sympathize while I lament 

The enclosure of Honington Green. 

VII. 

That no more upon Honington Green 
Dwells the matron whom most I revere, 
36 



422 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

If by pert Observation unseen, 

I e'en now could indulge a fond tear. 

Ere her bright morn of life was o'ercast, 
When my senses first woke to the scene. 

Some short happy hours she had past 
On the margin of Honington Green. 

VIII. 

Her parents with plenty were blest, 
And num'rous her children, and young, 

Youth's blossoms her cheek yet possest. 

And melody woke when she sung : 
A widow so youthful to leave, 

(Early clos'd the blest days he had seen,) 
My father was laid in his grave. 

In the church-yard on Honington Green. 



XXI. 

Dear to me was the wild thorny hill, 
And dear the brown heath's sober scene; 

And youth shall find happiness still. 

Though he rove not on common or green. 



XXII. 

So happily flexile man's make, 

So pliantly docile his mind. 
Surrounding impressions we take. 

And bliss in each circumstance find. 
The youths of a more polish'd age 

Shall not wish these rude commons to see; 
To the bird that's inur'd to the cage, 

It would not be bliss to be free. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 423 

There is a sweet and tender melancholy per- 
vades the elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloomfield, 
which has the most indescribable effects on the 
heart. Were the versification a little more 
polished, in some instances, they would be read 
with unmixed delight. It is to be hoped that he 
will cultivate this engaging species of composition, 
and, (if I may venture to throw out the hint,) if 
judgment may be formed from the poems he has 
published, he would excel in sacred poetry. 
Most heartily do I recommend the lyre of David 
to this engaging bard. Divine topics have seldom 
been touched upon with success by our modern 
Muses : they afford a field in which he would 
have few competitors, and it is a field worthy of 
his abilities. 

W, 



MELANCHOLY HOURS, 

(No. VII.) 

If the situation of man, in the present life, be 
considered in all its relations and dependencies, 
a striking inconsistency will be apparent to a very 
cursory observer. We have sure warrant for be- 
lieving that our abode here is to form a compara- 
tively insignificant part of our existejice, and that 
on our conduct in this life will depend the 



424 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

happiness of the life to come ; yet our actions 
daily give the lie to this proposition, inasmuch as 
we commonly act like men who have no thought 
but for the present scene, and to whom the grave 
is the boundary of anticipation. But this is not 
the only paradox which humanity furnishes to the 
eye of a thinking man. It is very generally the 
case, that we spend our whole Ifves in. the pursuit 
of objects, which common experience informs us 
are not capable of conferring that pleasure and 
satisfaction which we expect from their enjoyment. 
Our views are uniformly directed to one point : — 
happiness in whatever garb it be clad, and under 
whatever figure shadowed, is the great aim of 
the busy multitudes, whom we behold toiling 
through the vale of life, in such an infinite 
diversity of occupation, and disparity of views. 
But the misfortune is, that we seek for Happiness 
where she is not to be found, and the cause of 
wonder, that the experience of ages should not 
have guarded us against so fatal and so universal 
an error. 

It would be an amusing speculation to consider 
the various points after which our fellow-mortals 
are incessantly straining, and in the possession of 
which they have placed that imaginary chief good 
which we are all doomed to covet, but which, 
perhaps, none of us, in this sublunary state, can 
attain. At present, however, we are led to con- 
siderations of a more important nature. ' We turn 
from the inconsistencies observable in the prose- 
cution of our subordinate pursuits, from the 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 425 

partial follies of individuals, to the general deliisian 
which seems to envelope the whole human race : — 
the delusion under whose influence they lose sight 
of the chief end of their being, and cut down the 
sphere of their hopes and enjoyments to a few 
rolling years, and that, too, in a scene where they 
know there is neither perfect fruition nor perma- 
nent delight. 

The faculty of contemplating mankind in the 
abstract, apart from those prepossessions which, 
both by nature and the power of habitual 
associations, would intervene to cloud our view, 
is only to be obtained by a life of virtue and 
constant meditation, by temperance, and purity of 
thought. Whenever it is attained, it must greatly 
tend to correct our motives — to simplify our 
desires — and to excite a spirit of contentment and 
pious resignation. We then, at length, are enabled 
to contemplate our being, in all its bearings, and 
in its full extent, and the result is, that superiority 
to common views, and indifference to the things 
of this, life, which should be the fruit of all true 
philosophy, and which, therefore, are the more 
peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy which 
is called the Christian. 

To a mind thus sublimed, the great mass of 
mankind will appear like men led astray by the 
workings of wild and distempered imaginations — 
visionaries who are wandering after the phantoms 
of their own teeming brams, and their anxious 
solicitude for mere matters of worldly accommo- 
dation and ease will seem more like the effects of 
36* 



426 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

insanity than of prudent foresight, as they are 
esteemed. To the awful importance of futurity 
he will observe them utterly insensible ; and he 
will see with astonishment the few alloted years 
of human life wasted in providing abundance they 
will never enjoy, while the eternity they are placed 
here to prepare for, scarcely employs a moment's 
consideration. And yet the mass of these poor 
wanderers in the ways of error, have the light of 
truth shining on their very foreheads. They have 
the revelation of Almighty God himself, to declare 
to them the folly of wordly cares, and the necessity 
for providing for a future state of existence. They 
know by the experience of every preceding 
generation, that a very small portion of joy is 
allowed to the poor sojourners in this vale of tears, 
and that, too, embittered with much pain and fear, 
and yet every one is willing to flatter himself that 
he shall fare better than his predecessor in the same 
path, and that happiness will smile on him which 
hath frowned on all his progenitors. 

Still it would be wrong to deny the human race 
all claim to temporal felicity. There may be 
comparative, although very little positive happi- 
ness ; — whoever is more exempt from the cares of 
the world and the calamities incident to humanity — 
whoever enjoys more contentment of mind, and is 
more resigned to the dispensations of Divine 
Providence — in a word, whoever possesses more 
of the true spirit of Christianity than his neigh- 
bors, is comparatively happy. But the number 
of these, it is to be feared, is very small. Were 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 427 

all men equally enlightened by the illuminations 
of truth, as emanating from the spirit of Jehovah 
himself, they would all concur in the pursuit of 
virtuous ends by virtuous means — as there would 
be no vice, there would be very little infelicity. 
Every pain would be met with fortitude, every 
affliction with resignation. We should then all 
look back to the past with complacency, and to 
the future with hope. Even this unstable state of 
being would have many exc[uisite enjoyments — ■ 
the principal of which would be the anticipation 
of that approaching state of beatitude to which 
we might then look with confidence, through the 
medium of that atonement of which we should be 
partakers, and our acceptance, by virtue of which, 
would be sealed by that purity of mind of which 
human nature is, of itself, incapable. But it is 
from the mistakes and miscalculations of mankind, 
to which their fallen natures are continually prone, 
that arises that flood of misery which overwhelms 
the whole race, and resounds wherever the foot- 
steps of man have penetrated. It is the lamentable 
error of placing happiness in vicious indulgences, 
or thinking to pursue it by vicious means. It is 
the blind folly of sacrificing the welfare of the 
future to the opportunity of immediate guilty 
gratification, which destroys the harmony of 
society, and poisons the peace, not only of the 
immediate procreators of the errors — not only of 
the identical actors of the vices themselves, but of 
all those of their fellows who fall within the reach 



428 MELANCHOLY HOURS, 

of their influence or example, or who are m any- 
wise connected with them by the ties of blood. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly — you 
■vtho are yet unskilled in the ways of the world — 
to beware on what object you concentre your 
hopes. Pleasures may allure — pride or ambition 
may stimulate, but their fruits are hollow and 
deceitful, and they afford no sure, no solid satis- 
faction. You are placed on the earth in a state of 
probation — ^your continuance here will be, at the 
longest, a very short period, and when you are 
called from hence you plunge into an eternity, the 
completion of which will be in correspondence to 
your past life, unutterably happy or inconceivably 
miserable. Your fate will probably depend on 
your early pursuits — it will be these which 
will give the turn to your character and to your 
pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, with a meek 
and lowly spirit, to read the pages of that Book, 
which the wisest and best of men have 
acknowledged to be the word of God. You will 
there find a rule of moral conduct, such as the 
world never had any idea of before its divul- 
gation. If you covet earthly happiness, it is only 
to be found in the path you will find there laid 
down, and I can confidently promise you, in a life 
of simplicity and purity, a life passed in accordance 
with the Divine word, such substantial bliss, such 
unruffled peace, as is no where else to be found. 
All other schemes of earthly pleasure are fleeting 
and unsatisfactory. They all entail upon them 
repentance and bitterness of thought. This alone 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 429 

endureth for ever — this alone embraces equally the 
present and the future — this alone can arm a man 
against every calamity — can alone shed the balm 
of peace over that scene of life when pleasures 
have lost their zest, and the mind can no longer 
look forward to the dark and mysterious future. 
Above all, beware of the ignus fatuus of false 
philosophy : that must be a very defective system 
of ethics which will not bear a man through the 
most trying stage of his existence, and I know of 
none that will do it but the Christian. 

W. 



ELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. VIII.) 



Anaxandrides apud Suidam. 



Much has been said of late on the subject of 
inscriptive writing, and that, in my opinion, to 
very little purpose. Dr. Drake, when treating on 



430 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

this topic, is, for once, inconclusive ; but his essay 
does credit to his discernment, however Httle it 
may honour him as a promulgator of the laws of 
criticism : the exquisite specimens it contains prove 
that the doctor has a feeling of propriety and 
general excellence, although he may be unhappy 
in defining them. Boileau says, briefly, " Les 
inscriptions doivent etre sinijjles, courte, et 
familiar es.^'' We have, however, many examples 
of this kind of writing in our language, which 
although they possess none of these qualities, are 
esteemed excellent. Akenside's classic imitations 
are not at all simple, nothing short, and the very 
reverse of familiar, yet who can deny that they 
are beautiful, and in some instances appropriate ? 
Southey's inscriptions are noble pieces ; — for the 
opposite qualities of tenderness and dignity, 
sweetness of imagery and terseness of moral, 
unrivalled ; they are perhaps wanting in propriety, 
and (which is the criterion) produce a much better 
effect in a book, than they would on a column or 
a cenotaph. There is a certain chaste and majestic 
gravity expected from the voice of tombs and 
monuments, which probably would displease in 
epitaphs never intended to be engraved, and 
inscriptions for obelisks which never existed. 

When a man visits the tomb of an illustrious 
character, a spot remarkable for some memorable 
deed, or a scene connected by its natural sublimity 
with the higher feelings of the breast, he is in a 
mood only for the nervous, the concise, 'and the 
impressive ; and he will turn with disgust alike 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 431 

from the puerile conceits of the epigrammatist, and 
the tedious prolixity of the herald. It is a nice 
thing to address the mind in the workings of 
generous enthusiasm. As words are not capable 
of exciting such an effervesence of the sublimer 
affections, so they can do little towards increasing 
it. Their office is rather to point these feelings to 
a beneficial purpose, and by some noble sentiment, 
or exalted moral, to impart to the mind that 
pleasure which results from warm emotions when 
connected with the virtuous and the generous. 

In the composition of inscriptive pieces, great 
attention must be paid to local and topical propriety. 
The occasion, and the place, must not only regulate 
the tenor, but even the style of an inscription : for 
what, in one case, would be proper and agreeable, 
in another would be impertinent and disgusting. 
But these rules may always be taken for granted, 
that an inscription should be unaffected and free 
from conceits ; that no sentiment should be intro- 
duced of a trite or hacknied nature ; and that the 
design and the moral to be inculcated should be of 
sufficient importance to merit the reader's attention, 
and ensure his regard. Who would think of set- 
ting a stone up in the wilderness to tell the traveller 
what he knew before, or what, when he had 
learned for the first time, was not worth the 
knowing ? It would be equally absurd to call 
aside his attention to a simile or an epigrammatic 
point. Wit on a monument, is like a jest from a 
judge, or a philosopher cutting capers. It is a 
severe mortification to meet with flippancy where 



433 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

we looked for solemnity, and meretricious elegance 
where the occasion led us to expect the unadorned 
majesty of truth. 

That branch of inscriptive writing which 
commemorates the virtues of departed worth, or 
points out the ashes of men who yet live in the 
admiration of their posterity, is, of all others, the 
most interesting, and, if properly managed, the 
most useful. 

It is not enough to proclaim to the observer that 
he is drawing near to the reliques of the deceased 
genius, — the occasion seems to provoke a few 
reflections. If these be natural, they will be in 
unison with the feelings of the reader, and, if they 
tend where they ought to tend, they will leave him 
better than they found him. But these reflections 
must not be too much prolonged. They must 
rather be hints than dissertations. It is suflicient 
to start the idea, and the imagination of the reader 
will pursue the train to much more advantage than 
the writer could do by words. 

Panegyric is seldom judicious in the epitaphs 
on public characters, for, if it be deserved, it 
cannot need publication, and if it be exaggerated, 
it will only serve to excite ridicule. When 
employed in memorizing the retired virtues of 
domestic life, and quahties which, though they only 
served to cheer the little circle of privacy, still 
deserved, from their unfrequency, to triumph, at 
least, for a while, over the power of the grave, it 
may be interesting and salutary in its efiects. To 
this purpose, however, it is rarely employed. An 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 433 

epitaph-book will seldom supply the exigencies of 
character; and men of talents are not always, 
even in these favored times, at hand to eternize 
the virtues of private life. 

The following epitaph, by Mr. Hayley, is 
inscribed on a monument to the memory of Cowper, 
in the church of East Dereham : 



"Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talants dignified by sacred zeal, 
Here to Devotion's bard devoutly just 
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! 
England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his favorite name : 
Sense, Fancy, Wit, conspire not all to raise 
So clear a title to Affection's praise : 
His highest honors to the heart belong ; 
His virtues formed the magic of his song." 



« This epitaph," says a periodical critic,* " is 
simply elegant, and appropiately just." I regard 
this sentence as peculiarly unfortunate, for the 
the epitaph seems to me to be elegant without 
simplicity, and just without propriety. No one 
will deny that it is correctly written, and that it is 
not destitute of grace ; but in what consists its 
simplicity I am at a loss to imagine. The initial 
address is labored and circumlocutory. There 
is something artificial rather than otherwise in 

* The monthly Reviewer 

37 



434 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

the personification of England, and her ranking 
the poet's name " with her dearest sons," instead 
of with those of her dearest sons, is Hke ranking 
poor John Doe with a proper bona fide son of 
Adam, in a writ of arrest. Sense, Fancy, and Wit, 
" raising a title," and that to " Affection's praise," 
is not very simple, and not over intelligible. Again, 
the epitaph is just because it is strictly true ; but 
it is hj no means, therefore, appropriate. Who 
that would turn aside to visit the ashes of Cowper, 
would need to be told that England ranks him 
with her favorite sons, and that sense, fancy, and 
wit were not his greatest honors, for that his virtues 
formed the magic of his song ; or who, hearing 
this, would be the better for the information? 
Had Mr. Hayley been employed in the monu- 
mental praises of a private man, this might have 
been excusable, but speaking of such a man as 
Cowper, it is idle. This epitaph is not appropri- 
ate, therefore, and we have shown that it is not 
remarkable for simplicity. Perhaps the respec- 
table critics themselves may not feel inclined to 
dispute this point very tenaciously. Epithets are 
very convenient little things for rounding off a 
period ; and it will not be the first time that truth 
has been sacrificed to verbosity and antihesis. 

To measure lances with Haley may be esteemed 
presumptous ; but probably the following, although 
much inferior as a composition, would have had 
more effect than his polished and harmonious 
lines. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 435 



INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT. 



MEMORY OF COWPER. 

Reader ! if with no vulgar sympathy 

Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of worth, 

Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd spot. 

Here Cowper rests. Although renown have made 

His name familliar to thine ear, this stone 

May tell thee that his virtues were above 

The common portion : — that the voice, now hush'd 

In death, was once serenely querulous 

With pity's tones, and in the ear of wo 

Spake music. Now forgetful at thy feet 

His tired head presses on its last long rest. 

Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek, 

Once warm with animation's lambent flush. 

Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. 

Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better part : 

And these sad garments of mortality 

Put off, we trust, that to a happier land 

He went a light and gladsome passenger. 

Sigh'st thou for honors, reader 1 Call to mind 

That glory's voice is impotent to pierce 

The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms 

Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the skies ! 

So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk 

With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 

This inscription is faulty from its length, but if 
a painter cannot get the requisite effect at one 
stroke, he must do it by many. The laconic style 



436 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

of epitaphs is the most difficult to be managed of 
any, inasmuch as most is expected from it. A sen- 
tence standing alone on a tomb, or a monument, 
is expected to contain something particularly stri- 
king : and when this expectation is disappointed, 
the reader feels like a man who, having been 
promised an excellent joke, is treated with a stale 
conceit, or a vapid pun. The best specimen of 
this kind, which 1 am acquainted with, is that on 
a French general : 

" Sisie, Viator ; Heroem calcas f" 
Stop, traveller ; thou treadest on a hero ! 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. IX.) 



Scires e sanguine natoe. 

Ovid. 



It is common for busy and active men to behold 
the occupations of the retired and contemplative 
person with contempt. They consider his specu- 
lations as idle and unproductive; as they par- 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 437 

ticipate m none of his feelings, they are strangers 
to his motives, his views, and his delights ; they 
behold him elaborately employed on what they 
conceive forwards none of the interests of life, 
contributes to none of its gratifications, removes 
none of its inconveniences : they conclude, there- 
fore, that he is led away by the delusions of futile 
philosophy, that he labors for no good, and lives 
to no end. Of the various frames of mind which 
they observe in him, no one seems to predominate 
more, and none appears to them more absurd, than 
sadness, which seems, in some degree, to pervade 
all his views, and shed a solemn tinge over all his 
thoughts. Sadness, arising from no personal grief, 
and connected with no individual concern, they 
regard as moonstruck melancholy, the effect of a 
mind overcast with constitutional gloom, and 
diseased with habits of vain and fanciful specu- 
lation. — " We can share with the sorrows of the 
unfortunate," say they, "but this monastic spleen 
merits only our derision : it tends to no beneficial 
purpose, it benefits neither its possessor nor society." 
Those who have thought a little more on this 
subject than the gay and busy crowd, will draw 
conclusions of a different nature. That there is a 
sadness, springing from the noblest and purest 
sources, a sadness friendly to the human heart, 
and, by direct consequence, to human nature in 
general, is a truth which a little illustration will 
render tolerably clear, and which, when understood 
m its full force, may probably convert contempt 
and ridicule into respect. 
37 * 



438 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

I set out, then, with the proposition, that the 
man who thinks deeply, especially if his reading 
be extensive, will, unless his heart be very cold 
and very light, become habituated to a pensive, 
or, with more propriety, a mournful cast of 
thought. This will arise from two more particular 
sources — from the view of human nature in 
general, as demonstrated by the experience both 
of past and present times, and from the contem- 
plation of individual instances of human depravity 
and of human sutiering. The first of these is, 
indeed, the last in the order of time, for his general 
views of humanity are in a manner consequential, 
or resulting from the special ; but I have inverted 
that order for the sake of perspicuity. 

Of those who have occasionally thought on 
these subjects, I may, with perfect assurance of 
their reply, inquire what have been their sensations 
when they have, for a moment, attained a more 
enlarged and capacious notion of the state of man 
in all its bearings and dependencies. They have 
found, and the profoundest philosophers have done 
no more, that they are enveloped in mystery, and 
that the mystery of man's situation is not without 
alarming and fearful circumstances. They have 
discovered that all they know of themselves is 
that they live, but that from whence they came, or 
whither they are going, is by Nature altogether 
hidden ; that impenetrable gloom surrounds them 
on every side, and that they even hold their 
morrow on the credit of to-day, when it is, in fact, 
buried in the vague and indistinct gulf of the ages 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 439 

to come ! — These are reflections deeply interesting, 
and lead to others so awful, that many gladly shut 
their eyes on the giddy and unfathomable depths 
which seem to stretch before them. The medita- 
tive man, however, endeavors to pursue them to 
the farthest stretch of the reasoning powers, and 
to enlarge his conceptions of the mysteries of his 
own existence ; and the more he learns, and the 
deeper he penetrates, the more cause does he find 
for being serious, and the more inducements to be 
continually thoughtful. 

If, again, we turn from the condition of mortal 
existence, considered in the abstract, to the qualities 
and characters of man, and his condition in a state 
of society, we see things perhaps equally strange 
and infinitely more affecting. — In the economy of 
creation, we perceive nothing inconsistent with 
the power of an all-wise and all-merciful God. A 
perfect harmony runs through all the parts of the 
universe. Plato's syrens sing not only from the 
planetary octave, but through all the minutest 
divisions of the stupendous whole ; order, beauty, 
and perfection, the traces of the great Architect, 
glow through every particle of his work. At 
man, however, we stop : there is one exception. 
The harmony of order ceases, and vice and 
misery disturb the beautiful consistency of crea- 
tion, and bring us first acquainted with positive 
evil. We behold men carried irresistibly away 
by corrupt principles and vicious inclinations, 
indulging in propensities, destructive as well to 
themselves as to those around them ; the stronger 



440 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

oppressing the weaker, and the bad persecuting 
the good ! we see the depraved in prosperity, the 
virtuous in adversity, the guilty unpunished, the 
deserving overwhelmed with unprovoked misfor- 
tunes. From hence we are tempted to think, that 
He, whose arm holds the planets in their course, 
and directs the comets along their eccentric orbits, 
ceases to exercise his providence over the affairs 
of mankind, and leaves them to be governed and 
directed by the impulses of a corrupt heart, or the 
blind workings of chance alone. Yet this is incon- 
sistent both with the wisdom and the goodness of 
the Deity. If God permit evil, he causes it : the 
difference is casuistical. We are led, therefore, 
to conclude, that it was not always thus : that 
man was created in a far different and far happier 
condition ; but that, by some means or other, he 
has forfeited the protection of his Maker. Here 
then is a mystery. The ancients, led by reasonings 
alone, perceived it with amazement, but did not 
solve the problem. They attempted some expla- 
nation of it by the lame fiction of a golden age 
and its cession, where, by a circular mode of 
reasoning, they attribute the introduction of vice 
to their gods having deserted the earth, and the 
desertion of the gods to the introduction of vice,* 
This, however, was the logic of the poets ; the 
philosophers disregarded the fable, but did not 
dispute the fact it was intended to account for. They 

* Hesiod. Opera et Dies. Lib. 1. 195.— Ovid. Metamor. 
L. 1. Fab. 4.— Juvenal. Sat. vi. 1. 10. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 441 

often hint at human degeneracy, and some unknown 
curse hanging over our being, and even coming 
into the world along with us. Pliny, in the preface 
to his seventh book, has this remarkable passage : 
" The animal about to rule over the rest of created 
animals lies weeping, bound hand and foot, making 
his first entrance upon life with sharp pangs, and 
and this, for no other crime than that he is born 
man.'' — Cicero, in a passage, for the preservation 
of which we are indebted to St. Augustine, gives 
a yet stronger idea of an existing degeneracy in 
human nature: — "Man," says he, "comes into 
existence, not as from the hands of a mother, but 
of a step-dame nature, with a body feeble, naked, 
and fragile, and a mind exposed to anxiety and 
care, abject ui fear, unmeet for labor, prone to 
licentiousness, in which, however, there still dwell 
some sparks of the divine mind, though obscured, 
and, as it were, in ruins." And, in another place, 
he intimates it as a current opinion, that man 
comes into the world as into a state of punish- 
ment expiatory of crimes committed in some 
previous stage of existence, of which we now 
retain no recollection. 

From these proofs, and from daily observation 
and experience, there is every ground for conclu- 
ding that man is in a state of misery and depravity 
quite inconsistent with the happiness for which, 
by a benevolent God, he must have been created. 
We see glaring marks of this in our own times. 
Prejudice alone blinds us to the absurdity and the 
horror of those systematic murders which go by 



442 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

the name of wars, where man falls on man, brother 
slaughters brother, where death, in every variety 
of horror, preys " on the finely-fibred human 
frame,^^ and where the cry of the widow and the 
orphan rise up to heaven long after the thunder 
of the fight and the clang of arms have ceased, 
and the bones of sons, brothers, and husbands 
slain are grown white on the field. Customs like 
these vouch, with most miraculous organs, for the 
depravity of the human heart, and these are not 
the most mournful of those considerations which 
present themselves to the mind of the thinking 
man. 

Private life is equally fertile in calamitous per- 
version of reason, and extreme accumulation of 
misery. On the one hand, we see a large propor- 
tion of men sedulously employed in the eduction 
of their own ruin, pursuing vice in all its varieties, 
and sacrificing the peace and happiness of the 
innocent and unoffending to their own brutal 
gratifications ; and, on the other, pain, misfortune, 
and misery, overwhelming alike the good and the 
bad, the provident and the improvident. But too 
general a view would distract our attention : let 
the reader pardon me if I suddenly draw him 
away from the survey of the crowds of life to a 
few detached scenes. We will select a single 
picture at random. The character is common. 

Behold that beautiful female, who is rallying a 
well-dressed young man with so much gayety and 
humor. Did you ever see so lovely a countenance ? 
There is an expression of vivacity in her fine dark 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 443 

eye which quite captivates one ; and her smile, 
were it a Httle less bold, would be bewitching. 
How gay and careless she seems ! One would 
suppose she had a very light and happy heart. 
Alas ! how appearances deceive ! This gaiety is 
all feigned. It is her business to please, and 
beneath a fair and painted outside she conceals 
an unquiet and forlorn breast. When she was 
yet very young, an engaging but dissolute young 
man took advantage of her simplicity, and of the 
affection with which he had inspired her, to betray 
her virtue. At first her infamy cost her many 
tears ; but habit wore away this remorse, leaving 
only a kind of indistinct regret, and, as she fondly 
loved her betrayer, she experienced, at times, a 
mingled pleasure even in this abandoned situation. 
But this was soon over. Her lover, on pretence 
of a journey into the country, left her for ever. 
She soon afterwards heard of his marriage, with 
an agony of grief which few can adequately 
conceive, and none describe. The calls of want, 
however, soon subdued the more distracting ebul- 
litions of anguish. She had no choice left ; all 
the gates of virtue were shut upon her, and though 
she really abhorred the course, she was obliged 
to betake herself to vice for support. Her next 
keeper possessed her person without her heart. 
She has since passed through several hands, and 
has found, by bitter experience, that the vicious, 
on whose generosity she is thrown, are devoid of 
all feeling but that of self-gratification, and that 
even the wages of prostitution are reluctantly and 



444 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

grudgingly paid. She now looks on all men as 
sharpers. She smiles but to entangle and destroy, 
and while she simulates fondness, is intent only 
on the extorting of that, at best poor pittance, 
which her necessities loudly demand. Thought- 
less as she may seem, she is not without an idea 
of her forlorn and wretched situation, and she 
looks only to sudden death as her refuge, against 
that time when her charms shall cease to allure the 
eye of incontinece, when even the lowest haunts 
of infamy shall be shut against her, and without 
a friend or a hope, she must sink under the pres- 
sure of want and disease. 

But we will now shift this scene a little, and 
select another object. Behold yon poor weary 
wretch, who, with a child wrapt in her arms, with 
difficulty drags along the road. The man, with 
a knapsack, who is walking before her, is her 
husband, and is marching to join his regiment. 
He has been spending, at a dram-shop in the 
town they have just left, the supply which 
the pale and weak appearance of his wife pro- 
claims was necessary for her sustenance. He is 
now half drunk, and is venting the artificial spirits 
which intoxication excites in the abuse of his 
weary help-mate behind him. She seems to listen 
to his reproaches in patient silence. Her face will 
tell you more than many words, as, witti a wan 
and meaning look, she surveys the little wretch 
who is asleep on her arms. The turbulent brutality 
of the man excites no attention : she is pondering 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 445 

on the future chance of life, and the probable lot 
of her heedless little one. 

One other picture, and I have done. The 
man pacing with a slow step and languid aspect 
over yon prison court, Avas once a fine dashing 
fellow, the admiration of the ladies, and the envy 
of the men. He is the only representative of a 
once respectable family, and is brought to this 
situation by unlimited indulgence at that time 
when the check is most necessary. He began to 
figure in genteel life at an early age. His mis- 
judging mother, to whose sole care he was left, 
thinking no alliance too good for her darling, 
cheerfully supplied his extravagance, under the 
idea that it would not last long, and that it would 
enable him to shine in those circles where she 
wished him to rise. But he soon found that habits 
of prodigality, once 'well gained, are never eradi- 
cated. His fortune, though genteel, was not 
adequate to such habits of expense. His unhappy 
parent lived to see him make a degrading alliance, 
and come in danger of a jail, and then died of a 
broken heart. His affairs soon wound themselves 
up. His debts were enormous, and he had nothing 
to pay them with. He has now been in that prison 
many years, and since he is excluded from the 
benefit of an insolvency act, he has made up his 
mind to the idea of ending his days there. His wife, 
whose beauty had decoyed him, since she found he 
could not support her, deserted him for those who 
could, leaving him without friend or companion, to 
pace, with measured steps, over the court of a country 
38 



446 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

jail, and endeavor to beguile the lassitude of impris- 
onment, by thinking on the days that are gone, or 
counting the squares in his grated window in 
every possible direction, backwards, forwards, and 
across, till he sighs to find the sum always the 
same, and that the more anxiously we strive to 
beguile the moments in their course, the more 
sluggishly they travel. 

If these are accurate pictures of some of the 
varieties of human suffering, and if such pictures 
are common even to triteness, what conclusions 
must we draw as to the condition of man in 
general, and what must be the prevailing frame 
of mind of him who meditates much on these 
subjects, and who, unbracing the whole tissue of 
causes and effects, sees Misery invariably the 
offspring of Vice, and Vice existing in hostility to 
the intentions and wishes of God ? Let the medi- 
tative man turn where he will, he finds traces of 
the depraved state of Nature, and her consequent 
misery. History presents him with little but 
murder, treachery, and crimes of every descrip- 
tion. Biography only strengthens the view, by con- 
centrating it. The philosophers remind him of the 
existence of evil, by their lessons how to avoid or 
endure it ; and the very poets themselves afford 
him pleasure, not unconnected with regret, as, 
either by contrast, exemplification, or deduction, 
they bring the world and its circumstanpes before 
his eyes. 

That such a one, then, is prone to sadness, who 
will wonder ? If such meditations are beneficial, 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 447 

who will blame them ? The discovery of evil 
naturally leads us to contribute our mite towards 
the alleviation of the wretchedness it introduces. 
While we lament vice, we learn to shun it our- 
selves and to endeavor, if possible, to arrest its 
progress in those around us 5 and in the course of 
these high and lofty speculations, we are insensi- 
bly led to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift 
up our thoughts to Him who is alone the fountain 
of all perfection and the source of all good. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS 

(No. X.) 



La rime est una esclave, et ne doit qu'obeir. 

Boileau U Art Poetique. 



Experiments in versification have not often 
been successful. Sir Philip Sidney, with all his 
genius, great as it undoubtedly was, could not 
impart grace to his hexameters, or fluency to his 



448 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

Sapphics. Spencer's stanza was new, but his 
verse was familiar to the ear ; and though his 
rhymes were frequent even to satiety, he seems 
to have avoided the awkwardness of novelty, and 
the difficulty of unpractised metres. Donne had 
not music enough to render his broken rhyming 
couplets sufFerable, and neither his wit nor his 
pointed satire were sufficient to rescue him from 
that neglect which his uncouth and rugged versi- 
fication speedily superinduced. 

In our time, Mr. Southey has given grace and 
melody to some of the Latin and Greek measures, 
and Mr. Bowles has written rhyming heroics, 
wherein the sense is transmitted from couplet to 
couplet, and the pauses are varied with all the 
freedom of blank verse, without exciting any sen- 
sation of ruggedness, or offending the nicest ear. 
But these are minor efforts : the former of these 
exquisite poets has taken a yet wider range, and 
in his " Thalaba the Destroyer," has spurned at 
all the received laws of metre, and framed a fabric 
of verse altogether his own. 

An innovation, so bold as that of Mr. Southey, 
was sure to meet with disapprobation and ridicule. 
The world naturally looks with suspicion on sys- 
tems which contradict established principles, and 
refuse to quadrate with habits which, as they 
have been used to, men are apt to think cannot 
be improved upon. The opposition which has 
been made to the metre of Thalaba, is, therefore, 
not so much to be imputed to its want of harmony, 
as to the operation of existing prejudices ; and it 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 449 

is- fair to conclude, that, as these prejudices are 
softened by usage, and the strangeness of novelty 
wears off, the peculiar features of this lyrical frame 
of verse will be more candidly appreciated, and 
its merits more unreservedly acknowleged. 

Whoever is conversant with the writings of this 
author, will have observed and admired that 
greatness of mind, and comprehension of intellect, 
by which he is enabled, on all occasions to throw 
off the shackles of habit and prepossession. 
Southey never treads in the beaten track : his 
thoughts, while they are those of nature, carry 
that cast of originality which is the stamp and 
testimony of genius. He views things through a 
peculiar phasis, and while he has the feelings of a 
man, they are those of a man almost abstracted 
from mortality, and reflecting on, and painting the 
scenes of life, as if he were a mere spectator 
uninfluenced by his own connection with the ob- 
jects he surveys. To this faculty of bold dis- 
crimination I attribute many of Mr. Southey 's 
peculiarities as a poet. He never seems to inquire 
how other men would treat a subject, or what 
may happen to be the usage ,of the times ; but 
filled with that strong sense of fitness which is the 
result of bold and unshackled thought, he fear- 
lessly pursues that course which his own sense of 
propriety points out. 

It is very evident to me, and I should conceive 

to all who consider the subject attentively, that the 

structure of the verse, which Mr. Southey has 

promulgated in his Thalaba, was neither adopted 

38 * 



450 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

rashly, nor from any vain emulation of originality. 
As the poet himself happily observes, "/if is the 
arabesque ornament of an Arabian tale." No 
one would wish to see the Joan of Arc in such a 
a garb ; but the wild freedom of the versification 
of Thalaba accords well with the romantic wild- 
ness of the story ; and I do not hesitate to say, 
that, had any other known measure been adopted, 
the poem would have been deprived of half its 
beauty, and all its propriety. In blank verse 
it would have been absurd ; in rhyme, insipid. 
The lyrical manner is admirably adapted to 
the sudden transitions and rapid connections of 
an Arabian tale, while its variety precludes 
tsedium, and its full, because unschackled, cadence 
satisfies the ear with legitimate harmony. At 
first, indeed, the verse may appear uncouth, 
because it is new to the ear; but I defy any man 
who has any feeling of melody, to peruse the 
whole poem, without paying tribute to the sweet- 
ness of its flow, and the gracefulness of its modu- 
lations . 

In judging of this extraordinary poem, we 
should consider it as a genuine lyric production, — 
we should conceive it as recited to the harp, in times 
when such relations carried nothing incredible with 
them. Carrying this idea along with us, the 
admirable art of the poet will strike us with ten- 
fold conviction; the abrupt sublimity, of his 
transitions, the sublime simplicity of his manner 
and the delicate touches by which he connects the 
various parts of his narrative, will then be more 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 451 

Strongly observable, and we shall, in particular, 
remark the uncommon felicity with which he has 
adapted his versification ; and, in the midst of the 
wildest irregularity, left nothing to shock the ear, 
or offend the judgment. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. XI.) 
THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE. 

Few histories would be more worthy of atten- 
tion than that of the progress of knowledge, from 
its first dawn to the time of its meridian splendor, 
among the ancient Greeks. Unfortunately, how- 
ever, the precautions which, in this early period, 
were almost generally taken to confine all know- 
ledge to a particular branch of men, and when 
the Greeks began to contend for the palm among 
the learned nations, their backwardness to ac- 
knowledge the sources form whence they derived 
the first principles of their philosophy, have served 
to wrap this interesting subject in almost impene- 
trable obscurity. Few vestiges, except the 
Egyptian hieroglyphics, now remain of the learn- 
ing of the more ancient world. Of the two 
millions of verses said to have been written by 



453 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

the Chaldean Zoroaster,* we have no relics ; and 
the oracles which go under his name are pretty 
generally acknowledged to be spurious. 

The Greeks unquestionably derived their phi- 
losophy from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. Both 
Pythagoras and Plato had visited those countries 
for the advantage of learning ; and if we may 
credit the received accounts of the former of these 
illustrious sages, he was regularly initiated in the 
schools of Egypt, during the period of twenty- 
two years that he resided in that country, and 
became the envy and admiration of the Egyptians 
themselves. Of the Pythagorean doctrines we 
have some accounts remaining ; and nothing is 
wanting to render the systems of Platonism 
complete and intelligible. In the dogmas of these 
philosophers, therefore, we may be able to trace 
the learning of these primitive nations, though 
our conclusions must be cautiously drawn, and 
much must be allowed to the active intelligence 
of two Greeks. Ovid's short summary of the 
philosophy of Pythagoras deserves attention. 

Isque, licet cosli regione remotos, 



Mente Deos adiit : et, quae natura negabat 
Visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit. 
Cumque animo, et vigili perspexerat omnia cura ; 
In medium discenda dabat : ccetumque silentum, 
Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia mundi 
Et rerum causas et quid natura docebat, 
Quid Deus : unde nives : quse fulminis esset ori'go 
Jupiter, an venti, discussa nube, tonarent, 
Quid quateret terras : qua sidera lege mearent, 
Et quodcumque latet. 

* Pliny. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 453 

If we are to credit this account, and it is 
corroborated by many other testimonies, Pythag- 
oras searched deeply into natural causes. Some 
have imagined, and strongly asserted, that his 
central fire was figurative of the sun, and, there- 
fore, that he had an idea of its real situation ; but 
this opinion, so generally adopted, maybe combated 
with some degree of reason. I should be inclined 
to think Pythagoras gained his idea of the great 
centra.1, vivifying, and creative fire from the 
Chaldeans, and that, therefore, it was the repre- 
sentative not of the sun but of the Deity. Zoroaster 
taught that there was one God, Eternal, the Father 
of the Universe : he assimilated the Deity to light, 
and applied to him the names of Light, Beams, 
and Splendor. The Magi, corruptmg his repre- 
sentation of the Supreme Being, and, taking 
literally what was meant as an allegory or symbol, 
supposed that God was this central fire, the source 
of heat, light, and life, residing in the centre of 
the universe ; and from hence they introduced 
among the Chaldeans the worship of fire. That 
Pythagoras was tainted with this superstition is 
well known. On the testimony of Plutarch, his 
disciples held, that in the midst of the world is 
fire, or in the midst of the four elements is the 
fiery globe of Unity, or Monad — the procreative, 
nutritive, and excitive power. The sacred fire of 
Vesta, among the Greeks and Latins, was a 
remain of this doctrine. 

As the limits of this paper will not allow me to 
take ni all the branches of this subject, I shall 



454 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

confine my attention to the opinions held by these 
early nations of the nature of the Godhead. 

Amidst the corruptions introduced by the Magi, 
we may discern, with tolerable certainty, that 
Zoroaster taught the worship of the one true God ; 
and Thales, Pythagoras, and Plato, who had all 
been instituted in the mysteries of the Chaldeans, 
taught the same doctrine. These philosophers 
likewise asserted the omnipotence and eternity of 
God ; and that he was the creator of all things, 
and the governor of the universe. Plato decisively 
supported the doctrines of future rewards and 
punishments ; and Pythagoras, struck with the 
idea of the omnipresence of the Deity, defined him 
as animus per universas mundi partes omnemque 
naturam commeans atque diffusus, ex quo omnia 
quse nascunter animalia vitam capiunt.^ — An 
intelligence moving upon, and diflused over all the 
parts of the universe and all nature, from which 
all animals derive their existence. As for the 
swarm of gods worshipped both in Egypt and 
Greece, it is evident they were only esteemed as 
inferior deities. In the time of St. Paul, there 
was a temple at Athens inscribed to the unknown 
God : and Hesiod makes them younger than the 
earth and heaven. 

E^ a-gX*'^ °"^ Tst;* km Ou^eivo; tugv; iriicrov 
Ol t' tK Tcev iytvovTO Qiot cTrjJi «gej Mctv, 

Theog. 

* Lanctantius Div. Inst. lib. cap. 5. etiam, Minucius Felix, 
" Py thagorse Deus est animus per universam rerum naturam 
commeans atque intentus ex quo etiam animalium omnium 
vita capiatur " 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 455 

If Pythagoras, and the other philosophers who 
succeeded him, paid honor to these gods, they 
either did it through fear of encountering ancient 
prejudices, or they reconciled it by recurring to the 
Daemonology of their masters, the Chaldeans, who 
maintained the agency of good and bad Daemons, 
who presided over different things, and were 
distinguished into the powers of light and darkness, 
heat and cold. It is remarkable, too, that amongst 
all these people, whether Egyptians or Chaldeans, 
Greeks or Romans, as well as every other nation 
under the sun, sacrifices were made to the gods, 
in order to render them propitious to their wishes, 
or to expiate their offences — a fact which proves, 
that the conviction of the interference of the Deity 
in human affairs is universal ; and, what is much 
more important, that this custom is primitive, and 
derived from the first inhabitants of the world. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. XII.) 

While the seat of empire was yet at Byzan- 
tium, and that city was the centre, not only of 
dominion, but of learning and politeness, a certain 
hermit had fixed his residence in a cell, on the 



456 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

banks of the Athyras, at the distance of about ten 
miles from the capital. The spot was retired, 
although so near the great city, and was protected, 
as well by woods and precipices as by the awful 
reverence with which, at that time, all ranks 
beheld the character of a recluse. Indeed, the 
poor old man, who tenanted the little hollow, at 
the summit of a crag, beneath which the Athyras 
rolls its impetuous torrent, was not famed for the 
severity of his penances, or the strictness of his 
mortifications. That he was either studious, or 
protracted his devotions to a late hour, was evident, 
for his lamp was often seen to stream through the 
trees which shaded his dwelling, when accident 
called any of the peasants from their beds at 
unseasonable hours. Be this as it may, no 
miracles were imputed to him ; the sick rarely 
came to petition for the benefit of his prayers, and, 
though some both loved him, and had good reason 
for loving him, yet many undervalued him for the 
want of that very austerity which the old man 
seemed most desirous to avoid. 

It was evening, and the long shadows of the 
Thracian mountains were extending still farther 
and farther along the plains, when this old man 
was disturbed in his meditations by the approach 
of a stranger. "How far is it to Byzantium?" 
was the question put by the traveller. " Not far 
to those who know the country," replied the 
hermit, "but a stranger would not easily find his 
way through the windings of these woods, and 
the intricacies of the plains beyond them. Do you 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 457 

see that blue mist which stretches along the 
bounding line of the horizon as far as the trees 
will permit the eye to trace it ? That is the Pro- 
pontis : and higher up on the left, the city of Con- 
stantinople rears its proud head above the waters. 
But I would dissuade thee, stranger, from pursuing 
thy journey farther to-night. Thou may est rest 
in the village, which is half way down the hill ; 
or if thou wilt share my supper of roots, and put 
up with a bed of leaves, my cell is open to thee." — 
" I thank thee, father," replied the youth, " I am 
weary with my journey, and will accept thy 
proffered hospitality." They ascended the rock 
together. The hermit's cell was the work of 
nature. It penetrated far into the rock, and in the 
innermost recess was a little chapel, furnished with 
a crucifix, and a human skull, the objects of the 
hermit's nightly and daily contemplation, for 
neither of them received his adoration. That 
corruption had not as yet crept into the Christian 
church. The hermit now lighted up a fire of dry 
sticks, (for the nights are very piercing in the 
regions about the Hellespont and the Bosphorus,) 
and then proceeded to prepare their vegetable 
meal. While he was thus employed, his young 
guest surveyed, with surprise, the dwelling which 
he was to inhabit for the night. A cold rock-hole 
on the bleak summit of one of the Thracian hills, 
seemed to him a comfortless choice for a weak and 
solitary old man. The rude materials of his 
scanty furniture still more surprised him. A table 
fixed to the ground, a wooden bench, an earthen 



458 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

lamp, a number of rolls of papyrus and vellum, 
and a heap of leaves in a corner-, the hermit's bed, 
were all his stock. " Is it possible," at length he 
exclaimed, " that you can tenant this comfortless 
cave, with these scanty accommodations, through 
choice : Go with me, old man, to Constantinople, 
and receive from me those conveniences which 
befit your years." " And what art thou going to 
do at Constantinople, my young friend ?" said the 
hermit, " for thy dialect bespeaks thee a native of 
more southern regions. Am I mistaken, art thou 
not an Athenian?" " I am an Athenian," replied 
the youth, " by birth, but I hope I am not an 
Athenian in vice. 1 have left my degenerate birth- 
place in quest of happiness. I have learned from 
my master, Speusippus, a genuine asserter of the 
much belied doctrines of Epicurus, that as a 
future state is a mere phantom and vagary of the 
brain, it is the only true wisdom to enjoy life while 
we have it. But I have learned from him also, 
that virtue alone is true enjoyment. I am resolved, 
therefore, to enjoy life, and that too with virtue, 
as my companion and guide. My travels are 
begun with the design of discovering where I can 
best unite both objects : enjoyment the most 
exquisite, with virtue the most perfect. You 
perhaps may have reached the latter, my good 
father ; the former you have certainly missed. 
To-morrow I shall continue my search. At Con- 
stantinople, I shall laugh and sing with the gay, 
meditate with the sober, drink deeply of every 
unpolluted pleasure, and taste all the fountains of 



MELANCHOLY HOURSt 459 

wisdom and philosophy. I have heard much of 
the accompUshments of the women of Byzantium. 
With us, females are mere household slaves ; here, 
I am told, they have minds. I almost promise 
myself that I shall marry and settle at Constanti- 
nople, where the loves and graces seem alone to 
reside, and where even the women have Tninds. 
My good father, how the wind roars about this 
aerial nest of yours, and here you sit during the 
long cold nights, all alone, cold and cheerless, when 
Constantinople is just at your feet, with all its 
joys, its comforts, and its elegancies. I perceive 
that the philosophers of our sect, who succeeded 
Epicurus, were right, when they taught that there 
might be virtue without enjoyment, and that virtue 
without enjoyment is not worth the having." The 
face of the youth kindled with animation as he 
spake these words, and he visibly enjoyed the 
consciousness of superior intelligence. The old 
man sighed and was silent. As they ate their 
frugal supper, both parties seemed involved in 
deep thought. The young traveller was dreaming 
of the Byzantine women : his host seemed 
occupied with far different meditations. " So you 
are travelling to Constantinople in search of 
happiness ?" at length exclaimed the hermit; "I 
too have been a suitor of that divinity, and it may 
be of use to you to hear how I have fared. The 
history of my life will serve to fill up the interval 
before we retire to rest, and my experience may 
not prove altogether useless to one who is about to 
go the same journey which I have finished. 



460 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

*•' These scanty hairs of mine were not always 
gray, nor these Hmbs decrepid : I was once, Uke 
thee, young, fresh, and vigorous, full of delightful 
dreams and gay anticipations. Life seemed a 
garden of sweets, a path of roses ; and I thought 
I had but to chose in what way I would be happy. 
I will pass over the incidents of my boyhood, and 
come to my maturer years. I had scarcely seen 
twenty summers, when I formed one of those ex- 
travagant and ardent attachments, of which youth 
is so susceptible. It happened, that, at that time, 
I bore arms under the emperor Theodosius, in his 
expedition against the Goths, who had over-run 
a part of Thrace. In our return from a successful 
campaign, we staid some time in the Greek cities, 
which border on the Euxine. In one of these 
cities I became acquainted with a female, whose 
form was not more elegant than her mind was 
cultivated, and her heart untainted. I had done 
her family some trivial services, and her gratitude 
spoke too warmly to my intoxicated brain to leave 
any doubt on my mind that she loved me. The 
idea was too exquisitely pleasing to be soon dis- 
missed. I sought every occasion of being with her. 
Her mild, persuasive voice seemed like the music 
of heaven to my ears, after the toils and roughness 
of a soldier's life. I had a friend, too, whose con- 
verse, next to that of the dear object of my secret 
love, was most dear to me. He formed the third 
in all our meetings, and beyond the enjoyment of 
the society of these two, I had not a wish. I had 
never yet spoken explicitly to my female friend, 



MELANCHOLY HOURS, 461 

but I fondly hoped we understood each other. 
Why should I dwell on the subject ? I was mis- 
taken. My friend threw himself on my mercy. 
I found that he, not I, was the object of her affec- 
tions. Young man, you may conceive, but I cannot 
describe what I felt, as I joined their hands. The 
stroke was severe, and, for a time, unfitted me for 
the duties of my station. I suffered the army to 
leave the place without accompanying it : and 
thus lost the rewards of my past services, and 
forfeited the favor of my sovereign. This was 
another source of anxiety and regret to me, as my 
mind recovered its wonted tone. But the mind 
of youth, however deeply it may feel for a while, 
eventually rises up from dejection, and regains its 
wonted elasticity. That rigor by which the spirit 
recovers itself from the depths of useless regret, 
and enters upon new prospects with its accustomed 
ardor, is only subdued by time. I now applied 
myself to the study of philosophy, under a Greek 
master, and all my ambition was directed towards 
letters. But ambition is not quite enough to fill 
a young man's heart. I still felt a void there, and 
sighed as I reflected on the happiness of my friend. 
At the time when I visited the object of ray first 
love, a young Christian woman, her frequent 
companion had sometimes taken my attention. 
She was an Ionian by birth, and had all the soft- 
ness and pensive intelligence which her country- 
women are said to possess when unvitiated by 
the corruptions so prevelant in that delightful 
region. You are no stranger to the contempt with 
39* 



463 MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

which the Greeks then treated, and do still, in 
some places, treat the Christians. This young 
woman bore that contempt with a calmness which 
surprised me. There were then but few converts 
to that religion in those parts, and its profession 
was therefore more exposed to ridicule and per- 
secution from its strangeness. Notwithstanding 
her religion, I thought I could love this interesting 
and amiable female, and, in spite of my former 
mistake, I had the vanity to imagine I was not 
indifferent to her. As our intimacy increased, I 
learned to my astonishment, that she regarded me 
as one involved in ignorance and error ; and that, 
although she felt an affection for me, yet she would 
never become my wife, while I remained devoted 
to the religion of my ancestors. Piqued at this 
discovery, I received the books, which she now 
for the first time put into my hands, with pity and 
contempt. I expected to find them nothing but 
the repositories of a miserable and deluded super- 
stition, more presuming than the mystical leaves 
of the Sibyls, or the obscure triads of Zoroaster. 
How was I mistaken I There was much which 
I could not at all comprehend ; but, in the midst 
of this darkness, the effect of my ignorance, I 
discerned a system of morality, so exalted, so ex- 
quisitely pure, and so far removed from all I would 
have conceived of the most perfect virtue, that 
all the philosophy of the Grecian world seemed 
worse than dross in the comparison. My former 
learning had only served to teach me that some- 
thing was wanting to complete the systems of 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 463 

philosophers. Here that invisible link was sup- 
plied, and I could even then observe a harmony 
and consistency in the whole which carried irresist- 
ible conviction to my mind. I will not enlarge 
on this subject. Christianity is not a mere set of 
opinions to be embraced by the understanding. 
It is the work of the heart as well as the head. 
Let it suffice to say, that, in time, I became a 
Christian, and the husband of Sapphira. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

TO THE 

MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 
BY A LADY. 

If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, 
To Henry's shade devote no common tear. 
His worth on. no precarious tenure hung, 
From genuine piety his virtues sprung : 
If pure benevolence, if steady sense, 
Can to the feeUng heart dehght dispense ; 
If all the highest efforts of the mind, 
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined. 
Call for fond sympathy's heart-felt regret, 
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt : 
His friends can truly speak how large his claim. 
And "Life was only wanting to his fame." 
Art thou, indeed, dear youth, forever fled ? 
So quickly number'd with the silent dead. 
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye, 
Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh. 
Ah ! could esteem, or admiration, save 
So dear an object from th' untimely grave, 
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell, 
The loss of one beloved, revered so well. 
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak, 
The silent sorrow that I feel, to speak. 

465 



466 TKIBUTARY VERSES. 

No more my hours of pain thy voice will cheer. 
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere ; 
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, 
And bid new fire relume my languid eye : 
No more the pencil's mimic art command, 
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand ; 
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, 
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. 
Vain all the pleasures thou can'st not inspire. 
And " in my breast th' imperfect joys expire," 
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my shrine, 
And little dream'd I should have wept o'er thine . 
In Fancy's eye methought I saw the lyre 
With virtue's energies each bosom fire ; 
I saw admiring nations press around, 
Eager to catch the animating sound : 
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of night, 
To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its flight, 
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade. 
And each graced honour to thy memory paid. 
Such was the fate hope pictured to my view — 
But who, alas ! e'er found hope's visions true ? 
And, ah ! a dark presage, when last we met, 
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ; 
When thou thy portrait from the minstrel drew. 
The living Edwin starting on my view — • 
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date ; 
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. 
Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure reveal'd. 
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. 
Too strong the portion of celestial flame 
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame j 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 467 

Too soon for us it sought its native sky, 

And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye ; 

Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our sight, 

Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light : 

So shall thy bright example fire each youth 

With love of virtue, piety, and truth. 

Long o^er thy loss shall grateful Granta mourn, 

And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn. 

When thy loved flower " Spring's victory makes 

known," 
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone : 
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread. 
Whose " tender fragrance," emblem of the dead. 
Shall " teach the maid, whose bloom no longei 

lives," 
That " virtue every perish'd grace survives." 
Farewell ! sweet Moralist ; heart-sickening grief 
Tells me in duty's path to seek relief. 
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise. 
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies. 
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance dwell, 
And to the world thy worth delight to tell : 
Though well I feel unworthy thee the lays 
That to thy memory weeping friendship pays. 



468 TRIBUTARY VERSBS, 



STANZAS 

Supposed to have been written at the Grave 
H. K. White. 

BY A LADY. 



1. 

Ye gentlest gales ! oh, hither waft, 
On airy Undulating sweeps. 

Your frequent sighs, so passing soft, 
Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps ! 

He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh, 

The sigh of sensibility. 

2. 

And thou shaJt lie, his favourite flower, 
Pale Primrose, on his grave reclined : 

Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour. 
And of his pure, his spotless mind ! 

Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale ; 

And felt, like thee, the trying gale. 

3. 

Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, 
Oh thou, the fragrant Rosemary, 

Where he, " in marble solitude. 

So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie ! 



TRIBUTARY VERSES, 469 

His harp prophetic sung to thee 
In notes of sweetest minstrelsy. 

4. 

Ye falling dews, Oh ! ever leave 

Your chrystal drops these flowers to steep : 
At earliest morn, at latest eve, 

Oh let them for their Poet weep ! 
For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, 
The tears of heavenly sympathy. 

5. 

Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams ; 

For he was wont to pace the glade. 
To watch in pale uncertain gleams. 

The crimson-zoned horizon fade — 
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour. 
Where he is set to rise no more. 



ODE 

On the late H. K. White. 

And is the minstrel's voyage o'er ? 

And is the star of genius fled ? 
And will his magic harp no more, 

Mute in the mansions of the dead, 
Its strains seraphic pour ? 

A Pilgrim m this world of wo, 
Condemn'd, alas ! awhile to stray, 
40 



470 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Where bristly thorns, where briars grow. 

He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, 
Its heavenly music flow. 

And oft he bade, by fame inspired, 
Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, 

Till angels by its music fired. 

Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain, 

Have wonder'd, and admired. 

But now secure on happier shores, 
With choirs of sainted souls he sings 5 

His harp th' Omnipotent adores. 
And from its sweet, its silver strings 

Celestial music pours. 

And though on earth no more he'll weave 
The lay that's fraught with magic fire. 

Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve 
His now exalted, heavenly lyre 

In sounds ^olian grieve. 

JUVENIS. 

B. Stoke. 



VERSES 

Occasioned by the death of H. K. White. 

What is this world at best, 
Though deck'd in vernal bloom, 
By hope and youthful fancy dress'd. 
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, 



TBIBTTTARY VERSES. 471 

A passage to the tomb ? 
If flowerets strew 
The avenue, 
Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few. 

And every hour comes arm'd 
By sorrow, or by wo : 
Conceal'd beneath its Uttle wings, 
A sithe the soft-shod pilferer brings, 
To lay some comfort low : 
Some tie t' unbind. 
By love entwined, 
Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. 

And every month displays 
The ravages of time : 
Faded the flowers ! — The Spring is past ! 
The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast. 
Warn to a milder clime : 
The songsters flee 
The leafless tree, 
And bear to happier realms their melody. 

Henry ! the world no more 
Can claim thee for her own ! 
In purer skies thy radiance beams ! 
Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes 
Before th' eternal throne : 
Yet, spirit dear. 
Forgive the tear 
Which those must shed who 're doom'd to lin- 
ger here. 



472 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Although a stranger, I 
In friendship's train would weep : 
Lost to the world, alas ! so young, 
And must thy lyre, in silence hung. 
On the dark cypress sleep ? 
The poet, all 
Their friend may call ; 
And Nature's self attends his funeral. 

Although with feeble wing 
Thy flight I would pursue, 
With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, 
Alike our object, hopes, and guide. 
One heaven alike in view ; 
True, it was thine 
To tower, to shine ; 
But I may make thy milder virtues mine. 

If Jesus own my name, 
(Though fame pronounced it never,) 
Sweet spirit, not with thee alone. 
But all whose absence here I moan, 
Circling with harps the golden throne, 
I shall unite for ever : 
At death then why 
Tremble or sigh ? 
Oh ! who would wish to live, but he who fears 
to die ! 

JOSIAH CONDER. 

Dec. 5th, 1807. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 473 



SONNET, 

On seeing another written to H. K. White, in September 
1803, inserted in his " Remains by Robert Southey." 

BY ARTHUR OWEN. 

Ah ! once again the long-left wires among, 
Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song ; 
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay 
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to stray 
O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower ; 

To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from 
view 
And courtship of the world : hail'd was the hour 

That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's dew, 
Poor Henry's budding beauties — to a clime 

Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray 

Forced their young vigour into transient day. 
And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them ! and shall 

time 
Trample these orphan blossoms ? — No ! they 

breathe 
Still lovelier charms^ — for Southey culls the wreath ! 

Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807. 



40 



474 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



SONNET 

In Memory of Mr. H. K. White. 

"'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go 
To where the brook soft-murmuring glides along 

In the still wood ; yet does the plaintive song 
Of Philomela through the welkin flow ; 
And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw 

Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, 

Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree strong, 
And intermingle with the streams my wo : 
Hush'd in deep silence every gentle breeze ; 

No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; 
Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the trees. 

And every flower withholds its rich perfume : 
•Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground 
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound ! 

J. G. 



REFLECTIONS, 

On reading the Life of the late H. K. White. 

BY WILLIAM HOLLOWAY, 

Author of " The Peasant's Fate.'* ' 

Darling of science and the muse. 
How shall a son of song refuse 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 475 

To shed a tear for thee ? 
To us, so soon, for ever lost. 
What hopes, what prospects have been cross'd 

By Heaven's supreme decree ? 

How could a parent, love-beguiled, 
In life's fair prime resign a child 

So duteous, good, and kind ? 
The warblers of the soothing strain 
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain 

To soothe the wounded mind ! 

Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb. 
Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, 

Dear poet, saint, and sage ! 
Who into one short span, at best. 
The wisdom of an age compress'd, 

A patriarch's lengthen'd age ! 

To him a genius sanctified. 
And purged from literary pride, 

A sacred boon was given : 
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre 
Celestial raptures could inspire. 

And lift the soul to Heaven. 

'Twas not the laurel earth bestows,, 
'Twas not the praise from man that flows, 

With classic toil he sought : 
He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 
When rescued from a world of car© ; 

Their spirit too he caught. 



476 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, 
Who idly range in Folly's way, 

And learn the worth of time : 
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, 
How to redeem this pearl at last. 

Atoning for your crime. 

This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime, 
Transplanted from the soil of time 

To immortality. 
In full perfection there shall bloom ; 
And those who now lament his doom 

Must bow to God's decree. 

London, 27th Feb. 1808. 



ON READING THE POEM ON 
SOLITUDE. 

But art thou thus indeed "alone ?" 
Quite unbefriended — all unknown ? 
And hast thou then his name forgot 
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot ? 

Is not his voice in evening's gale ' 
Beams not with him the ""star" so pale } 
Is there a leaf can fade and die, 
Unnoticed by his watchful eye ? 

Each fluttering hope — each anxious fear- 
Each lonely sigh — each silent tear — 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 477 

To thine Almighty Friend are known ; 
And say'st thou, thou art « all alone ?" 

JOSIAH CoNDER. 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE, 

BY THE REV. W. B. COLLYER, A. M. 

0, LOST too soon ! accept the tear 
A stranger to thy memory pays ! 

Dear to the muse, to science dear. 
In the young morniDg of thy days ! 

All the wild notes that pity loved 
Awoke, responsive still to thee. 

While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved 
In softest, sweetest harmony. 

The chords that in the human heart 
Compassion touches as her own, 

Bore in thy symphonies a part — 
With them in perfect unison. 

Amidst accumulated woes. 

That premature afflictions bring, 

Submission's sacred hymn arose. 

Warbled from every mournful string. 

When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread. 
And deeper every moment grew ; 



478 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

When rudely round thy youthful head, 
The chilling blasts of sickness blew ; 

Religion heard no 'plainings loud, 
The sigh in secret stole from thee ; 

And pity, from the " dropping cloud," 
Shed tears of holy sympathy. 

Cold is that heart in which were met 
More virtues than could ever die ; 

The morning-star of hope is set — 
The sun adorns another sky. 

partial grief! to mourn the day 

So suddenly o'erclouded here, 
To rise with unextinguish'd ray — 

To shine in a superior sphere ! 

Oft genius early quits this sod, 

Impatient of a robe of clay. 
Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, 

And smiles, and soars, and steals away ! 

But more than genius urged thy flight. 

And mark'd the way, dear youth ! for thee 

Henry sprang up to worlds of light. 
On wings of immortality ! 

Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 479 



WRITTEN IN 

THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE. 

Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White. 

Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless fame ! 

While on these awful leaves my fond eyes rest, 

On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand late 
press'd, 
I pause ; and gaze regretful on thy name. 
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, 

Be it from this its mansion dispossess'd ! 

But thee Eternity clasps to her breast. 
And in celestial splendor thrones thy claim. 

II. 

No more with mortal pencil shalt thou trace 
An imitative radiance :* thy pure lyre 

Springs from our changeful atmosphere's embrace, 
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire : 

The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone 

Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their own. 

C. L. 

Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. 

* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded 
with a glory. 



480 TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



ON 

THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE. 

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, 

Impassion'd minstrel ! when its pitying wail 
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell 

Untimely, wither 'd by the northern gale.* 
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime ! 

Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse 

blast, [clime, 

Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart 

But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'ercast. 
To see thee languish into quick decay. 

Yet was not thy departing immature ? 
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away. 

And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure ; 
Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly leaven, 
That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with heaven !t 

T. Park. 

* See Clifton Grove. 

f Young, I think, says of Narcissa, " she sparkled, was 
exhaled, and went to Heaven." 



THE END. 




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